Enter The Villain
by SlytherinPride2292
Summary: (Sequel to '[Somewhere...Know]') Oswald and Sylvia try to raise their newborn daughter in Gotham; a woman who resembles and acts too much like Kristen Kringle pops up; Tetch is up to no good, Valeska is revived:No one ever said Gotham was family-friendly. TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC, vivid death(s), heavy themes of angst (tw in applicable chapters). Of note: This story does have M/M/F
1. An Election Won

Chapter One: An Election, Won

* * *

 _ **Disclaimer**_ : That's right, my beautiful people. I am back so quickly, and with another sequel. So, as before, I do not own any of the _Gotham_ 's major plotlines, its characters. My subplots are my own as are my many, many, many, many, _many_ OC characters from the past as well as in the future.

 ** _Author's Note_** : If you're just popping in, hello, and welcome. If you're back to read more, also hello and welcome! :) By the way, let me just say, that since writing _Penguin's Weakness_ , do you all realize I've been invested (emotionally and time-speaking, actually) in this story for over a year now? Phew! Where does the time go! Anyway, no more stalling: here's the first chapter!

* * *

Sylvia was dressed in a white hospital gown, being rolled into the maternity ward in a wheel chair by Demetri. They hadn't any exams to attend nor any where to go. Her being wheeled around the hospital was for Sylvia's own general amusement.

"Anything yet?" Demetri asked hopefully.

"Contractions? I don't feel any. None that are real." Sylvia answered, leaning her back so she peered up at him.

"Well, I guess only some women feel those Braxton Hicks then, huh."

"Or maybe I have such a high pain tolerance, I don't feel a thing."

"Wouldn't surprise me, coming from you," Demetri chortled, shaking his head whimsically as he carted her back into her room.

Gotham General Hospital. Sylvia hadn't been back since she had been shot in the neck by one of her late employees, Michael Travinsky. While the memory itself was still very vague (she'd been in a coma for three weeks), the stay at the hospital still left an oily, bitter residue in her mouth that no amount of sweet nectar could erase.

Demetri helped her into the bed, gingerly placing the blanket over her, fluffing her pillows before tucking both cushions behind her head and back. As he did, Sylvia watched him. It was only when he'd stopped moving that Demetri realized her gaze hadn't dwindled, and suddenly, he became very self-conscious, seated by her side in a comfy armchair.

"What is it?" He asked uncertainly.

"You will make a handsome father one day, you know that," Sylvia said sweetly, holding her hand out for him to take. Steadily, he did. "You've been so helpful these past few days."

"It's the least I can do. You've done _so_ much for me, Miss Sylvia."

"You've more than paid me back," she said appreciatively. "You've helped Oswald with his errands, helped _me_ with mine, and now, look at you: tending to my every need."

Demetri clasped his hands together, looking fretful for only a second before a small smile of gratitude slowly crept to his facial features. The pool of solemn and misunderstanding that so frequently reflected from those light hazel brown eyes was now replaced with one of familial attentiveness.

"Do you still trust me, my lady?" He asked arbitrarily, his eyes flickering from the news channel upon where the election for the mayor's office was steadily creeping to a fanatical finish, then to Sylvia, who gazed at him suddenly, put off by his inquiry.

"Of course, I do."

"I'm glad you do… _glad_."

Sylvia said slowly, "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm just glad, you know," said Demetri, nodding furiously. He leaned back in the arm chair, crossing his ankles by the bedside. "I feel like I've had to prove myself to you for so long, to prove my _loyalty_ for such a long time, I just had to ask. That's all."

"Oh well…" Sylvia said, shaking her head. "As you can imagine, trust is hard to find in Gotham."

"Especially with the people you surround yourself with."

"Demetri, _you_ are one of those people."

"Well," he laughed, and the sound set Sylvia's nerves at ease. "I guess I am, aren't I!"

"Undoubtedly, darling."

There was a moment of silence that passed, but not completely. On the television, Sylvia and Demetri watched as the anchorwoman on the news declared that the votes were in, and that within the next few hours, a mayor would soon be announced. Whether that was Aubrey James, who'd governed Gotham for almost ten years, or Oswald Cobblepot, the established 'former Gotham kingpin'…it was still up for debate.

"It's anyone's election now," Demetri sighed, frowning slightly. "It's a shame though."

" 'Shame'?"

"Yeah. Being compared to someone like Aubrey James…I'll be honest, Miss Sylvia. I'm not really invested in politics, and I'm actually ignorant in most of those situations, but even _I_ think someone could run Gotham better than that man."

"Well, you're not the only one who feels that way," Sylvia responded, interlacing her fingers together over her belly. "I mean, that's why the election has lasted as long as it has. It's—oh!" She leaned forward, holding her stomach and grimaced initially before she started wincing and stifling a grunt of pain.

"Miss Sylvia? Are you okay? Do—Do you need a doctor?" Demetri said quickly, jumping to his feet and hurrying to her side as he touched her shoulder.

"No!" Sylvia hushed, smiling in spite of the cramp. "I think…I think it's just one of those Braxton Hicks things. You know… faux contractions, that type of thing."

"Are you sure you don't need one?"

"I certainly don't need a contraction, but no…I don't need a doctor. Not right now, no. I don't think so."

Demetri unsteadily sat back down in the arm chair, nearly missing the target and landing on the hospital floor before he quickly grabbed the back and balanced himself down. He pursed his lips, watching Sylvia intently until his mistress relaxed into the bed and let out a deep exhale.

"How long do you think that was?" asked Demetri. "Five minutes?"

"Honestly, it felt like an hour to me but you know. Perspective." Sylvia let out a small laugh, grinning. "Do you care to bring me a glass of water? Something…?"

"Oh sure, sure! I'll see if there's some vending machine or…I'll do that, just give me one moment!" He quickly left the room, glancing behind one last time fretfully before sprinting out, shouting, "I NEED A GLASS OF WATER HERE!"

Sylvia rolled her eyes, but she still couldn't help but giggle. After, she reached over to the bedside table, grabbed her cell phone, and called Oswald, who, after hearing she was starting to undergo _any_ type of contraction, beat the traffic with Butch Gilzean in the driver's seat, and Ed Nygma in the back.

For whatever reason—not to her surprise—Sylvia was unable to get a hold of her brother, Jim.

'Probably out trying to save the world again much to Captain Barnes' chagrin', she figured.

* * *

Sylvia and Demetri were speaking in low voices when Ed, Butch, and Oswald entered the room. It was like one big family reunion, minus the other Gordon relative. The familiarity was iconic as Demetri shook hands with Butch, Ed, and greeted Oswald with a small respectful bow of his.

After greeting him, Butch moved past to half-hug Sylvia around the shoulders; she returned it.

"How're you doing, Liv?" He asked conversationally.

She gave him a look; her hair was a little tangled and some of the strands fell over her face. Light perspiration dotted her forehead and darkened the collar of her hospital gown. So early in the process, she already appeared and felt tired.

"No better, no worse," Sylvia answered sarcastically. "How're you?"

"Doing," chuckled Butch, shrugging.

Demetri quickly moved away, out of the armchair so Oswald could take his place. Like a honed bodyguard, he resumed his duty nearest to the door, trying to get Butch in a conversation about the most random things: coffee tables, for instance.

Ed sat opposite of Oswald, on the edge of Sylvia's bed.

"Hey," Sylvia greeted him, smirking. "How's the politicking, Mr. Nygma."

"You don't even wanna know," Ed returned, raising his eyebrows. Then he cracked a grin, adding, "It hasn't been too bad, actually."

Sylvia scoffed, looking at her husband: "'Hasn't been too bad'. Quite the wordsmith you have there."

"He's been exemplary," Oswald returned, grinning proudly at Ed, who returned the flattered smile.

Butch cast Ed a disdainful glance before resuming his conversation with Demetri. Undetected by the other two sophisticated gentlemen, but noticed by Sylvia, who considered calling him out on it but not before feeling another cramp coming on.

"Liv…" Butch and Ed voiced simultaneously.

"—Miss Sylvia—"

"I'm fine!" Sylvia said quickly in an attempt to calm them all down.

While her guardsmen and Ed seemed on their toes about the new arrival of Sylvia and Oswald's first born, the latter smiled in spite of his staff's deep rooted concern. He held out his hand and she took it gratefully, squeezing as she suffered through another contraction.

"Breathe," Oswald whispered.

"Trust me when I say this," Sylvia grunted, glaring at him. "A _lot_ easier said than done."

"Well, breathing is innate," Butch offered helpfully.

"Wow!" Ed gasped.

"What?" Butch responded irritably.

"I'm surprised you know that."

"About breathing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't expect you to understand immediately. No, I meant the word, 'innate'."

"You little—"

"Guys!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at Ed and Butch, both of whom glowered at one another before clearing their throats embarrassedly and resumed to keep a fair amount of distance between them. "Can you all leave—except Oswald. Just, I don't know, stand outside the door for a sec?"

"Sure thing," Butch responded, smiling at her. "I'll be out here if you need anything."

"Oh, sure," Ed muttered. "What are _you_ going to do for her?"

"Oh yeah, what the hell can _you_ do?"

"A lot more than you."

"It's not a contest, Nygma."

"Well, seeing as you're standing on the losing side of the fence, I can see why you might think that," Ed snickered satirically, rolling his eyes. He waited for Butch to leave first before speaking to Demetri, "Hey, kid, do you like riddles?"

"Of course, I do," Demetri gushed, smiling widely.

Then the door closed.

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged glances before they both let out a deep sigh.

"How long have they been clawing at each other's throats?" She asked, her eyes lifting to the door to indicate the gentlemen in question.

"To be fair, I believe it's a difference in opinion." Oswald offered, smiling. "But, for the time being, forget about them. How are you feeling?"

"Like someone just stuffed my uterus with barbed wire, and every thirty minutes or so, they're trying to yank it out of me."

"Oh my goodness."

"Yes, it's very graphic. Try feeling it."

"I couldn't imagine."

"Well, you don't have a uterus, so I can't imagine you could." Sylvia returned, grinning at him. "How are _you_ feeling?"

"About?"

"The election. The tallying is coming up, isn't it?"

"Yes. It'll be announced on the news."

"Wouldn't you rather be in the manor, awaiting the results rather than at a hospital?" Sylvia questioned pointedly. "I mean, hearing the verdict with all your fans surrounding you—that sounds a lot better than sitting in a hospital, waiting on pins and needles for something that might not come in another twelve or—god forbid—some forty-two hours."

"Don't be ridiculous." Oswald said, shushing her. He ran his hand gingerly through her hair so the strands that had been left in abandon were pushed from her face, and he kissed her cheek. "I'm needed here."

"Have I ever told you what a gentleman you are?"

"Considering the fact that I was raised one, I think you've said it countless times."

"I'd say it again."

"You're more than welcome to, if that makes _this_ process any easier for you."

"Well, I doubt it will, but I do like the feeling of 'I told you so'."

Oswald uttered, "You have an indomitable spirit."

"You think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Sylvia snickered, sending him an impish smile before he kissed her in return.

His hand caressed one side of her face within his palm; the other moved behind her neck, his fingers tangled in her ginger hair. She responded appreciatively, soft lips retracting only to partly open so he could deepen the kiss. When the kiss naturally broke, Oswald smiled at her; she reciprocated it.

"How's the Underworld?" Sylvia asked. "Prospering?"

"For the most part."

"What do you mean: 'For the most part'."

"I don't have to tell you that the Families miss you at the meetings."

"Really," Sylvia chortled, shifting her blanket so she could wiggle her legs. "And here I thought I was just an annoying imp trying to ruin their day with my opinions."

"Well, they expressed a similar sentiment," Oswald offered, "but you've left a fingerprint that not many other people would be able to match."

"That's poetic."

"Is it?"

"Seemed like it to me," Sylvia chuckled. "I mean, if we're being poets then— _fuck_!" She bent over, hand over her stomach as she'd done before, but this time, she was unable to hold back her sound of pain. The same feeling—the barbed wire effect—it was stronger this time, like it might burrow out of her any moment, the worst pain she'd ever felt.

And this was coming from a woman who'd been shot.

"Pigeon…?"

"I…I don't think this is fake," Sylvia grunted, gritting her teeth. "This can't be Braxton Hicks—this is… _fuck_ , this is something different."

"Sweetheart—"

"Get me someone." Sylvia said, shaking her head, waving her hand at him.

"Who?"

"I don't know—a doctor, a nurse, a fucking Doula, I don't care…" Sylvia groaned. She damn near bit down on her tongue as the pain continued, for a longer period. And it hadn't even been the full five minutes before it had happened again. " _Fuck—_ get anyone!"

Oswald stood, but just as he did, Butch, Ed, and Demetri burst in, having heard her through the door.

"Demetri. Nurse…now." Sylvia panted.

"On it!" Demetri responded immediately. He sprinted out of the room, shouting at the top of the lungs, "I NEED A DOCTOR IN HERE! BABY'S COMING! THE BABY'S COMING!"

Butch whistled low: "Boy's got a set of pipes."

Sylvia twisted in her sheets, flailing her legs, growling, "Uhhh—what the _fuck_ , the baby's going to kill me!"

And then…the contractions stopped. Like a cramp having let go. Sylvia let out a deep sigh of relief, a strangled sob following only a second after. She brushed her hand through her hair, some of it was matted to her face.

"Fuck this…" Sylvia whimpered, staring up at the ceiling. "Fuck it."

"Pigeon," Oswald began, attempting to be consolable. "I…"

"No. Don't talk. Not right now."

"Liv," Ed said dutifully, coming to her side. "The doctor is on his way. Do you need anything?"

"Just stop talking." Sylvia mumbled, her breathing was erratic for a moment before returning to its normal respiration.

"How about we lie down for a mo'." Ed offered.

"That's fine…sure…"

Ed moved past Butch, who sent him a glare of his own. He took the remote for the bed, and hit a button. The head of the bed slowly lowered, the mechanical creaking accompanying it in its steady but slow descent. Sylvia smiled up at him from her back in gratitude.

Soon, an elderly man—probably in his sixties—came into the room, glancing idly at everyone, including Oswald, before he smiled candidly, stepping close to Sylvia, so she could see him, even while lying on her back. He was dressed in the familiar white lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck, a clipboard in his hand. Silently, he observed her current condition, his soft gaze was warm. Not concerned, but friendly and attentive.

"Mrs. Cobblepot…?"

"Mmhmm?" Sylvia answered, nodding her head.

"My dear woman, my staff and I could hear you all the way from our break room." The doctor chortled, making her smile. "Having this young man screaming at the top of his lungs for help was a bit of overkill, don't you think?"

"But necessary," Demetri piped up, earning a solemn look from the doctor but an appreciative one from both Oswald and Sylvia.

"For verification purposes, please tell me your full name."

"Sylvia Diana Cobblepot."

"And do you know where you are?"

"Gotham General."

"And why you're here?"

Sylvia blinked and said in the most sarcastic way possible, "Are you fucking serious?"

The doctor shrugged, saying apologetically, "I'm sorry. That was a poor attempt at humor."

"One of the poorest, if you ask me." Ed voiced from across the room; he and Butch stood against the wall; his hands folded in front of him while Butch's arms were crossed: typical bodyguard.

Ignoring Ed's low remark, the doctor asked, "How are you feeling currently, Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"Tired."

"How often are you feeling these contractions?"

"Every…I think every five minutes. Maybe more. I don't know…"

"I'm assuming this is the father?" said the doctor, glancing at Oswald indicatively.

"He is," Sylvia confirmed.

The doctor smiled and he held out a hand to him, saying, "I've been following your mayoral campaign, such a stride of success you've made so far, my dear sir. I do hope you win!"

"Oh, thank you," Oswald returned, shaking his hand.

"Oh, so candid," Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face. "Doctor?"

"I imagine that if you continue to have these contractions more frequently and in less time, you won't be in labor for a very long time. The staff and I had discussed the option of inducing in order to hurry this along, but it appears your daughter is making headway—if you'll forgive the pun—in order to get this process moving along." The doctor said warmly. "I do have to say though that when the time comes when you are in labor, we _do_ permit the father and—if requested—a Doula to assist in the childbirth. I'm afraid the other guests would have to leave the room."

Demetri said lightly, "Would we be able to stand outside the room?"

"Yeah," Butch said slowly, "I don't care to step out, but you know never know—people are pretty skittish around here, Doc."

"The hospital personnel don't discriminate who can stand outside," The doctor said lightheartedly. "Provided, of course, that the mother and father have no objections." He glanced at Sylvia and Oswald respectively. "You may decide within the next hour, but any longer than that, I believe we'd be pressing for time. Again, forgive the pun. Until then, I'll be making arrangements within the nursery to reserve a bed for young Miss Cobblepot. Do either of you have any questions?"

Oswald glanced at Sylvia who shook her head, so he returned, "None. Not at the moment."

"Very well. I'll return shortly."

He left as he said it.

Sylvia said warily to Butch, "Do you _really_ think someone would try to do something in the middle of the delivery?"

"To be honest, Liv, I'm not even sure what people _won't_ do." Butch returned, shaking his head. He gave the wall's a disappointed look, adding, "Not exactly the reinforced weapon of steel that I'd have preferred in this situation. I mean, if you think about it. Sylvia's on the table…Oswald'll be preoccupied—you" (he gestured to Demetri) "Probably preoccupied with waiting on Sylvia's every demand, and you" (he gestured to Ed)"…well, you're 'you'."

"Why do I get the feeling that you are trying to insult me?" Ed asked pointedly.

"Because I did insult you."

"Well, the insult was weak. Extremely diluted."

"Listen, you little punk," Butch began, but he suddenly silenced when he heard his phone ring. He stepped outside of the room to answer it.

Sylvia looked at the both of them before waving Demetri over; the latter clamored over to her, smiling respectfully at Oswald, who watched their interaction with a certain amusement.

"After this is over," Sylvia told him, "Could you do me a favor?"

"Sure! Of course, anything."

"Would you be able to find me a diet Sprite?"

"Of course, Miss Sylvia. Of course." Demetri said emphatically, nodding his head.

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome. I'll actually get it now…"

"Or you can wait. It might be a few hours." Sylvia reminded.

"Oh, right. Sure, I'll wait."

"Thanks, kid."

"No problem."

The news flickered with the poll, and the anchorwoman was speaking, "The final results will soon be in…"

Oswald smiled at Ed, standing to meet him. Ed met him with equal anticipation.

"This is it," Oswald said, glancing at the television. "The moment I've been waiting for."

"One of them anyway," Sylvia uttered, smirking when Oswald sent her a semi-apologetic smile, but didn't retract from his excitement.

Butch had answered the phone call, all right. Then he came in, hollering, "YOU! You ruined everything!"

He burrowed past Oswald, grabbed Ed by the throat, and slammed him against the wall. Sylvia sat upright, looking at him incredulously.

"Butch!" Oswald snapped. "Release him this instant! What is going on—"

"What the fuck are you doing!" Sylvia exclaimed.

Butch had never appeared so vexed, so furious. His grip around Ed's throat was tight, making the latter cough, but at least he wasn't literally choking him—although it appeared he might have wanted to.

"I'll tell you what's going on!" Butch snapped, glaring daggers at Ed. "He just cost us the election! He went to every district official, and he asked for the money back! Said you wanted to run a _clean_ election!"

The betrayal on Oswald's face. It wasn't the first time Sylvia nor Ed had seen it.

"Tell me this is not true," Oswald told Ed, his voice quiet but fearful.

"I'm afraid Butch is right," Ed said, glancing at him then at Butch pointedly as he added, "For _once_."

Sylvia managed to get out of bed, wobbling over to Butch, and shoving his hand off Ed, snapping, "Would you get a fucking grip on yourself. All of you!"

"Why!" Oswald snapped, looking fretfully at Ed. "Why? After everything I've done for you—everything we could've done together…you _betray me."_ He glanced at Sylvia and uttered more to himself than to anyone else: "Again…" He glared. " _Butch_."

"Oswald, _no_!" Sylvia exclaimed as Butch reached from within his jacket and pulled out a gun, aiming it at Ed.

"Get out of the way, Liv—"

"—Fuck you, Butch—"

"Move aside, Sylvia—"

"You're _not_ killing him, Oz!" Sylvia retorted, pushing Butch's gun out of Ed's face, and standing in front of him.

"I said 'Get out of the way!" Butch growled.

"And I said ' _fuck_ _you_ '!" She snapped.

The doctor, along with a few other hospital personnel, hurried inside. Butch held a gun to Sylvia's face; Sylvia was standing in front of Ed, who was backed up against a wall; meanwhile, Oswald looked torn between wanting to get Ed deep into the ground but also pulled another way due to the fact that his own hitman was aiming a gun at the mother of his child.

"What the _hell_ is going on here!" The doctor demanded.

""Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you where you stand," Oswald threatened, glaring at Ed.

"Well, for one," Ed began, "We're in a hospital, and there are witnesses—"

"— _I don't care—!"_ Oswald shouted.

"And then, there's that." Ed said, looking above Butch's shoulder at the television set that was nailed to the hospital wall.

Butch, Oswald, and Sylvia—along with the doctor and nurses—turned to the tv where the news anchorwoman was declaring Oswald's victory for mayor.

Sylvia side-stepped, no longer needing to be Ed's human shield and she smiled as Oswald approached him, pushing Butch slightly to the side.

"I still won…" Oswald whispered, trying to believe it himself. "They still want me as mayor."

Oswald looked at him, obviously no longer inclined to kill him at any point.

"I can be bought," He recited, "but I can't be stolen with a glance. I'm worthless to one. But priceless to two."

"What, a riddle?" Sylvia asked, glancing between Ed and Oswald curiously.

"Love," Oswald answered. "They love me."

"Yes. And if you paid those elected officials, you'd have never known. Feels good, doesn't it?"

He smiled back, saying in disbelief, "How did you know I would win?"

"Because I believe in you, Oswald. Even when you don't believe in yourself."

Oswald smiled, then turned to Butch: "You. You never thought I could win this election on my own. Maybe you're not cut out for this after all."

" _What_?" Butch exclaimed. " _Are you kidding me_?"

"Guys…" Sylvia mumbled.

"Don't worry!" Oswald snarled. "I still need somebody to _crack skulls—"_

Sylvia whimpered, slowly sitting down on the bed. She held her belly, trying to brace herself for another contraction. But this one was worse, one of the worse yet. The doctor ignored the men's arguing, and rushed to her side.

"Mrs. Cobblepot, are you okay," The doctor said swiftly.

" _No_ ," Sylvia groaned. "I say I'm pretty fucking far from being okay. It's—it's another one—it's another—"

Oswald turned, hearing Sylvia speak. When he saw her hunched over on the bed, with the doctor knelt by her side, he moved towards her—election victory, forgotten.

"It's not fake!" Sylvia sobbed, gritting her teeth. "It's not fake! FUCK! It's hurts—I can't take this—I can't _do_ this—"

"We need to get her to the delivery room. Now." The nurse ordered. "Orderly!"

Ed and Butch glanced at each other. Despite their animosity, it was time to put a pin in that. As the orderlies came to the room with a softer, but gurney-like bed on wheels, they assisted Sylvia onto it while she painstakingly swore as she lied back down. Oswald moved past all of them, standing at her side, offering his hand, which he immediately regretted the moment she squeezed. And she squeezed _hard_.

As she was taken to the delivery room, Demetri came running to the room, stopping at the doorway, seeing only Butch and Ed.

He was holding a Diet Sprite.


	2. The Old Times Are Gone

Chapter Two: The Old Times Are Gone

* * *

Ten hours later, after Sylvia screamed her head off and the bones in Oswald's hand were nearly crushed, a startlingly loud cry was heard within the delivery room. A cry that would normally have set many mothers' hearts to a quiver, but in this moment, it was welcomed with a gleeful sigh from the midwife, and a loud 'Thank _god_ it's over' from Sylvia, who lied back in the bed, exhausted from the strain.

It'd taken nearly eight hours, a shorter labor period than many women could boast about, but those eight hours had felt like _days_.

"There she is!" The elderly doctor cooed, grinning widely as the midwife swaddled the small squealing ball, and handed her to Sylvia, who held out her arms.

For a moment, she was so terrified. What if after all these months, Csilla did not like her? The fear was so crippling, Sylvia's hands trembled until the midwife placed the baby in her arms. 'Immediate contact', the doctor insisted. 'So that the child could imprint upon its mother'.

"I thought that was only for ducklings," Sylvia said weakly, but she let out a nervous laugh when Csilla's small hand reached for comfort. She drew the little one to her, a mat of raven-black hair on the head of a body that nestled just perfectly in Sylvia's arms. "Hey, sweet thing. Hello, my little lamb."

Oswald sat beside her, rubbing his hand only for a brief moment and thanking the midwife for when she had quickly brought an ice pack. There would be bruising to come, but for the moment, he couldn't remember what the ice pack was even for when he saw Sylvia's eyes light up with a happiness only Csilla could cause. The same happiness—the feeling of bringing something into being—it was something he'd never felt before.

"She has your hair," Sylvia uttered, smiling at Oswald, who returned it.

"A lot of it, it looks like."

Csilla moved, restlessly, until Sylvia guided her mouth to her breast and the little one latched on. Curious, at first, and then she followed her instincts.

"Guess she didn't want to be another ginger," Sylvia teased.

Oswald leaned over, and kissed Sylvia's cheek; her skin was flushed from the stress, and wet from both sweat and tears. While those tears had been from pain only moments ago, Sylvia now cried out of joy.

"We'll give you a moment," the doctor reassured. He reached out to Oswald, saying, "Congratulations, my dear boy. On your beautiful daughter, _and_ the election. This is quite a day for you, Mr. Mayor!"

Oswald attentively shook his hand, grateful for his bedside manner and the congratulations. The nurses and the doctor quickly left, briefly closing the door, but leaving it only cracked so if something should happen (all precaution, they reminded), there could be an immediate response. Once alone, Oswald sat on the edge of Sylvia's bed.

"Do you want to hold her, Ozzie?"

"I think—"

"Stop thinking, sweetheart." Sylvia said quickly. She gingerly held Csilla out to him; as though Csilla was (and, let's be honest, she was) the most precious, fragile thing he'd ever held in the world, Oswald carefully took her from Sylvia and held her against his chest.

Csilla made a cooing sound, her tiny palms pressing and pawing at Oswald's suit, as though she was trying to figure out what material it was made of.

"She's quiet," He whispered.

"Well, maybe she's learned a few things." Sylvia returned, shrugging. "You're her father, and I'm her mother. Csilla's going to be a very smart woman when she grows up…not to mention stubborn. Jim and I were pretty stubborn when were kids. Don't think you could find anyone more hard-headed."

"I beg to differ," Oswald mused, grinning, looking down at their baby. "She has the Gordon blood in her; I think we may have found a new champion to contest that theory."

"Should we bother trying to pull Butch and Ed in here or…?"

"I say 'give them another minute or two'."

"I imagine they're still duking it out."

"Probably. It wouldn't surprise me." Oswald muttered. "We had a nice little reveal of who believes in whom shortly before. We still have matters to discuss."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, saying, "You _do_ realize that Butch was just looking after your interests. Don't you?"

Oswald handed Csilla over to her; she gently took her back, and allowed her to quietly suckle on her breast. Oswald was quiet until he was certain that their daughter was comfortable and unable to be further disturbed, before he said darkly, "Butch did not believe I could win the election on my own."

"So he didn't," Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "We've always operated behind the scenes, sweetheart. We've always done things the dirty way. Even _you_ were on board with paying the elected officials, too."

He frowned: "You don't think he was trying to undermine me?"

"He believes in you, Ozzie. He just believes in you in a different way."

"Do you think I'd have won the election regardless?"

"What I believe doesn't really matter at the moment, seeing as you _have_ won. With or without the money."

"I still want to know." Oswald insisted, watching her intently.

"Then my answer is 'yes'. I think you'd have won the election, with or without having paid the elected officials. Frankly, I'm surprised you did—what with my public disturbance of admitting that Mrs. James meant little to anyone, including her husband, and my confession that I'd have killed her…well, if I had felt like it at the time."

Sylvia lightly massaged Csilla's head, watching the baby for a moment before returning her gaze to him. Oswald gazed at her as she did.

In the delivery room, there was no television to make any sound. The sounds in the room that could be heard were the low humming of the air conditioning unit that cooled the hospital, and suckling made by Csilla. Oswald sighed, and Sylvia looked at him curiously.

"I suppose," Oswald said calmly, "that with Csilla now here, our schedules are going to be up in the air for a time."

"Only until we get her on schedule," Sylvia assured. "She'll probably sleep odd hours in the night, but I don't think it's anything we can't handle. A few weeks or so, I think. Then again, I've never had a kid, so who knows what this one will be like. For all I know, she could be a total nightmare, but I'd rather not think that at the moment."

"She seems content enough, now."

"Quite."

There was another moment of silence, during which Oswald seemed lost in thought. Sylvia looked at him, noticing too.

"What's wrong, baby?" She asked.

"I can't help but think…" Oswald said hesitantly. "To wonder…"

"Think about what?"

"Mother would have loved to be here." He said finally, looking at her sadly. "Here. With us. With her." He gestured towards Csilla; his face, crestfallen.

"I'd have more trouble getting her out of the room than any of you," Sylvia uttered gently, smiling when Oswald couldn't hold back a small laugh of his own.

"Not even the meanest doctor could hold her back," He agreed.

"Or an army."

And another long silence followed.

Sylvia held out her hand. He looked at it curiously, then took it. She pulled him to her, smiling when he conformed, and sat in the bed with her. Without having to say a word, Sylvia reassured him, kissing him lightly on the lips as she cradled their daughter; Oswald wrapped an arm around her shoulder. And for what might have been minutes or hours, they stayed like that. Just treasuring each other and their new family member.

* * *

Following a two-day hospital stay to make sure nothing was wrong with Csilla or Sylvia, one troubling key aspect that both Oswald and Sylvia were having a time dealing with was the crying.

Babies cried. Go figure. Who knew, right.

But since crying was the only way that Csilla could communicate, she cried _all. The. Time._ After the third day, she and Oswald had fashioned out a plan: to care for the baby in shifts.

Sylvia took the mornings; Oswald took the evening; Olga, being the sweetheart of a housemaid and cook that she was, seemed content enough to help, and she took nights.

Unfortunately, the only person to quell the little one's appetite had to be Sylvia. If diaper changes, swaddling, singing, or being put to sleep didn't do it during their shift, either Oswald or Olga were going to her for a moment's last resort.

Sore from the labor, tired from everything in general, Sylvia was often times resentful after being woken up but a girl had to do what a mother had to do. And that was generally how things worked.

Between those moments, Oswald and Ed ventured out to be present for new school openings, park admissions, helping to feed the homeless and the wretched during the mornings while Sylvia had Csilla. Even in the afternoons, Sylvia still had Csilla but it was more or less as a precautionary tale since it was in the afternoons that Oswald wore his Underworld-Gotham's-Kingpin hat.

Meetings were conducted in the old Van Dahl mansion. Oswald was in the living room with the other Five Families, including the Duke. In the other room, Sylvia was standing in the kitchen with Olga; Csilla, in one arm, a telephone in the other as she put it to her ear.

"Hello?" Sylvia asked haggardly. Csilla was screaming in the other ear. "Who? _Who_?"

"Jim!" Jim shouted from the other line.

"Fuck, man, what do you want?"

"I've not heard from you—"

"Well, fun fact, I can't **hear** you—Csilla, please," Sylvia whispered, eyes rolling to the ceiling as Csilla screamed louder. "Please, sweetie, _please_ , quiet down for Mommy, please?"

Csilla's screams became shrieks.

"Olga, please…!" Sylvia pleaded.

Olga, the Russian, stocky woman who insisted on wearing maid's outfits, nodded and said "Da!" She held out her hands for the baby, and quickly, Sylvia handed Csilla over to her. In her own tongue, Olga hushed her, said a few things to Sylvia, who didn't understand a word until Olga pointed to the baby's diaper.

"Oh, yes, sorry, um," Sylvia mumbled frantically. "They're in the bathroom, Olga. Thank you, _thank you…_ " She put the phone back to her ear. " _What,_ Jim."

"You had the baby?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"About a week ago, yes. Where the fuck were _you_."

Jim grumbled, "Getting my mind warped by Tetch."

"Why were you getting hypnotized? I could have done the same number on your head and it wouldn't have cost you a damn penny."

"It wasn't voluntary, trust me."

"Trust you? Trust _you_? You know, I tried calling you when I was going to the hospital, tried calling when I was in labor, for christ's sake, and I tried calling you when I got home and every time since then and today, and you're just returning my calls—"

"Tetch tried to get me to kill myself, Vee."

Sylvia felt her words stumble out of her mouth, blinking, staring at the phone until she could thoroughly process what her brother just said.

"Vee? _Vee_ , are you still there?"

Sylvia put the phone back to her ear: "What the hell do you mean 'Tetch tried to kill you'?"

"Well, he didn't, but he did something to my mind."

"Like what?"

"He put the impulse in my mind, made me have thoughts."

"Thoughts? What kind of thoughts?"

"Suicidal thoughts," Jim whispered.

Sylvia frowned, saying, "You wouldn't have done it…I mean, right?"

"For a moment there…I think I could have."

"Well," she sighed. "That certainly puts things in perspective, doesn't it?"

"What does?"

"The fact that Gordons have a predilection for suicide. I mean, back when I thought you killed Oswald and shot him at the pier, I was about to kill myself. Mom killed _herself_. You seemed to think you might've done the same. I mean, for all we know, Dad would have—"

"Dad was killed in a car accident."

"So you say."

"It was in the police report."

"So _they_ say," Sylvia said darkly, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She sighed sadly, saying, "Are you okay now? I mean, with everything. With your thoughts, now? I'm assuming Tetch isn't doing his thing anymore…"

"No, but he's around."

"Yeah, he performed at my club."

"How'd that go?"

"You read the newspapers?" Sylvia reminded. "Everyone knows how it went unless they've been hiding under a rock or something."

"Ah right, the confessions."

"Yeah, the confessions."

"Speaking of which," Jim recalled, "I read that you admitted to beating up Danielle before I came back from the Army. 'Beat her within an inch of her life' or something like that. Was that true?"

"The 'irrefutable' truth."

"Care to tell me why you didn't bother just sending me a letter, letting me know that way?"

"You were fighting for the country, Jim, and you wanted me to send you a letter about how your girlfriend was two-timing you with a fucking prick?" Sylvia said unhappily. "What kind of monster do you think I am, huh?"

"Well, if it's any consolation, thank you."

"You're not mad?"

"It happened some time ago…seems stupid to dwell on it now."

"I appreciate that," Sylvia said smiling in spite of herself. "So where's Tetch now?"

"I don't know."

"Is he looking for _you_?"

"Probably."

"Dare I ask why?"

"Well, I tried to find his sister," said Jim darkly. "I found her."

"And?"

"She didn't want to be found."

"Trying to escape the clutches of her evil brother?" Sylvia guessed. "I guess I could understand where she's coming from."

Jim scoffed, "You don't understand. He was doing things to her when they were kids, things no siblings should be doing."

"So nothing morally upstanding, or legal for that matter."

"Not at all."

"Did you beat him up for it?"

"No."

"Maybe you should have."

"You know I couldn't," Jim reminded unhappily.

"You'd easily kill yourself before you knocked off someone who was actually deserving of such a sentence, wouldn't you?" Sylvia said, leaning against the counter.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"So he's after you because you tried to find his sister?"

"No, he paid me. About ten grand."

"So you _did_ find her."

"I _did_ find her," Jim confirmed. "But like I said: she didn't want to be found. Through some unfortunate circumstances, I was unable to save her."

"So Tetch killed her."

"Well, it depends on who you ask. If you ask him, _I_ killed Alice. But I think Tetch killed her a long time ago without having to do the deed herself. She fell off a building, impaled herself on a pike."

"That's pretty dark, Jimmy."

"Well, when have you known my life to be full of joy?"

"Point taken," Sylvia said quietly. "So…should I be worried about you? If Tetch blames you for his sister's death, I hardly think he'd let it go anytime soon."

"He might come after me. He might not. I don't know how these psychotics think."

"Well, if someone killed you or if I felt someone was responsible for ending your life, I imagine I'd be hellbent on revenge. So if I were you, I'd keep two eyes open and another pair on the back of your head." Sylvia warned softly.

"How's that kid of yours?"

"Upset," Sylvia answered. "I like how you decided to change the topics on me. Don't you think I didn't notice, Slick."

"Pretend you didn't notice. For me?" Jim snickered on the other line. "How is she?"

"She's crying a lot," Sylvia said tiredly. "I mean, I expect her to, but Jimmy…she cries _so much._ "

"Is Oswald helping?"

"What makes you think he wouldn't?"

"Well, he doesn't strike me as someone who enjoys children."

"It's different when it's your own kid," Sylvia pointed out. "He's been supportive, very helpful. Frankly, I think we're both nearing the end of our rope. Thank goodness for our housemaid."

"Who?"

"Olga."

" _Who_?"

"Olga," Sylvia repeated. "She's the cook, and the housemaid. Doesn't really speak a lick of English, but she understands it very well."

"If she doesn't speak English, how do you communicate?"

"With desperate looks and equally desperate crying."

"The baby's crying, you mean."

"No, the parents are bawling too," Sylvia said humorously. She smiled in spite of herself, saying, "In all seriousness, Jimmy. I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah. Me too. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for the arrival."

"Well, I had Ed, Butch, and Demetri in the room with me. In the hospital room, not in the delivery room, mind you. I think having you there might've made the occasion a little too exciting." Sylvia muttered, smirking when she heard Jim laugh sarcastically.

"Ha-Ha. Ha." He said, almost too joyfully for it to be sarcasm.

"Still seeing that reporter?" Sylvia questioned.

"Wanting to make a critique about my love life?"

"Only if you're dating the reporter and not—you know—telling Lee how you feel."

"We've been over this."

"Yes, we have, but if I remember correctly, we never finished talking about it." Sylvia bothered to remind him. "So, have you?"

"Have I what?"

"Told Lee what you felt."

"I told you, it's too late."

"As according to whom?"

"Me."

"Well," Sylvia exhaled, "I guess there's no changing your mind. Is there?"

"Not likely. Like I said, I moved on."

"Oh really? Still trying to be a Private Investigator?"

"Yep," Jim returned shortly.

"Still living in that crummy apartment?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Still fucking Vale?"

"I wish I could say 'As we speak'."

"Yeah, a missed opportunity," Sylvia agreed. "So basically, you haven't moved up in the world. You're in the same rut as I left you."

"Basically."

"And you're happy?"

"I'm moderately content," Jim corrected. Sylvia could _hear_ his grin.

"If you say so," She returned.

Olga returned with Csilla, the baby in her arms. She said a few words that Sylvia didn't understand and handed her over; Sylvia thanked her, smiling appreciatively, and held the baby against her chest so she could feel her, skin-on-skin. The low V-cut blouse provided that easy access, and it also made breast-feeding more convenient.

"Hey, I have to feed Csilla, so I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Have fun."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Love you, Vee."

"Love you too." Sylvia returned, and she hung up. She smiled at Olga, saying, "You're a godsend, you know that?"

Olga smiled, nodding, then she moved around the kitchen to prepare dinner for tonight.

* * *

It hadn't even been an hour since Csilla had been put to bed for a mid-afternoon nap before her cries could be heard in the baby monitors placed around the mansion. In the bathroom, in the living room, in the bedroom, and the kitchen: her cries were heard.

Oswald sighed patiently, although he was certain his own capacity for interruptions was nearing empty. He excused himself from the table where the Five Families had gathered, heading upstairs to console Csilla.

Her wide eyes were open, looking everywhere around her; their sky blues meeting Oswald's when he hovered over the crib, reaching in and picking her up as gingerly as he'd seen Sylvia do it.

"Shhh…" Oswald whispered. "It's okay, little one. Shh…"

In the baby's room, Butch had brought up a rocking chair; Olga, several blankets. He sat in the rocking chair, swaddling the milky flesh of Csilla's body, lightly wrapping her and pressing her against him, patting her back and keeping her close.

While he was annoyed beyond all measure that Csilla would start fussing loudly to the point of shrieking each time he and Sylvia changed shifts, there was a bittersweet feeling. A feeling that despite the frustration and all the interruptions Csilla could cause, and her demanding nature, made Oswald smile down at the baby who looked up at him. Not quite yet able to meet his eyes since Csilla was so young she couldn't fully see anything just yet…but in some fashion, Oswald felt like she could sense him.

She could sense that he was her father.

"You are a loud one, aren't you," Oswald said, smiling down at her. "So demanding, so _stubborn_. You're so sleepy, and yet, you're crying to stay awake." He sighed, pausing in the slow rocking back and forth in the chair, adding, "You're definitely your mother's daughter."

What Sylvia remembered and what Oswald seemed to temporarily forget was that even as he'd gone to console their daughter, the baby monitors were always still on.

Everything he said to her, everyone in the manor could hear him: Butch, who guarded the living room; Demetri, who was in his room, fiddling with a guitar he bought to gently strum; Ed, who had a room of his own, as he languidly perused the books that he'd purchased to stimulate his brain; Olga, who prepared the dinner, and smiled when she heard her Master's soft words.

To the heads of the Five Families who regularly saw Oswald's cruel, strict, Stalin-esque nature, it was almost a backlash. An insight that in their fearless, ruthless leader, a man who the gangs feared and the Gotham's people revered, there was a soft side to him that only Sylvia, Ed, and Csilla only had the privilege to see.

Sylvia stood in the living room, what essentially was their Meeting Room, momentarily taking over Oswald's duties as the primary ruler of the Underworld the moment he had to leave the room. After he'd left, the meeting continued:

"Sal Maroni had a great deal of the drug trade and controlled the ports," Ron Maroni, Head of the Maroni family, said calmly. "If we—us in general—no longer wanted to pay tariffs for those ports, would that cause a _huge_ dispute, do you think?"

Sylvia smiled politely, asking, "You mean if you decided that you and the rest of your people no longer felt inclined to do your part to keep up with stabilizing the economy of Gotham, whether or not that would allow you to remain a part of the business trade?"

Ron Maroni smiled innocently: "Well, you know, when you put it like that…"

"You'd become an outcast," She answered with a hard smile. "Your turf would no longer be worth anything of value, and it'd be given to someone else—probably someone in this room—who _would_ pay tariffs for the ports. Perhaps, they'd even keep the captains who provide this city with half its food and resources up to code, pay them better, and I wouldn't have to deal with petty bribery to keep the Water and Dane attorneys off our fucking backs."

Maroni stared at her, eyes wide. He stammered, "I guess I've caught you at a bad time."

Sylvia shrugged and said sarcastically, "It appears you have. Do you still want to be a team player, Mr. Maroni. Have you changed your mind on how you feel about paying the tariffs?"

"Without a doubt."

"Cool beans," she responded gleefully, smiling from ear-to-ear. "Now, we can continue further business."

"Do you think," Mr. Anderson of the Anderson Family finally spoke, "We could continue when the Penguin returns? Perhaps he'd offer a little more open-minded insight than what—"

Sylvia cleared her throat, saying, "If you want to talk open-mindedness, I doubt you'd find a better candidate than myself, Mr. Anderson. I can't help it that you still blame me for your son's death—"

"I blame you because you killed him."

"And I can see why you may feel that way, but it was your son who decided to go against me. And, remember, Mr. Anderson, you _told_ me I could kill him. Must we have this argument every time we meet?" Sylvia questioned cynically. "I mean, it's _every_ time you and I bump into each other. And we bump into each other quite frequently here. I thought we settled this matter a _long_ time ago."

Mr. Anderson, as elderly as he was and as stubborn as he could be, frowned deeply: "You may be Queen of Gotham, or call yourself 'Lark'—"

"Wrong again. I don't call myself 'Lark'. Everyone else does. It's a name people have given me."

"And yet you don't care if people, including yourself, use it."

"Hey, if people want to call me what they call me, so be it. It's not rude or offensive, and I particularly don't mind it." Sylvia said, holding her hands up carelessly, shrugging too. "I've been called 'Mrs. Penguin', 'Gordon's kid sister', and 'Hey, you', so frankly, you can call me whatever you want. As long as it's not rude."

"What I would call you," Anderson said darkly, "is something I wouldn't dare call you in this house or in the House."

"The House of God, you mean."

"The same."

"Well, you may call me whatever in this house or in whatever other house you prefer," Sylvia said apathetically. "Call me a 'bitch', a 'cunt', or a fucking 'whore' even, but that doesn't change the nature of this conversation, nor the future conversations we will have between you, me, and everyone else here at this table. Frankly, I would have hoped that after all this time, you'd have forgiven your son's transgressions, and opened your heart to a new beginning."

"Time changes things, alright," Anderson said, nodding his head. He curled his lip, leaning forward, "But it doesn't change what you've done. And it doesn't heal old wounds. It just makes them bigger, infects them, until you feel nothing. What purpose, then, does Time serve us?"

A man of Russian and French descent, heir to the Belich fortune and Family's current Don, Jock Belich leaned forward as well, saying, "That's very existential thinking, old timer, but maybe we should continue with this conversation another time. I have a daughter of mine I don't like to keep waiting, so if we could…?"

"You talk," grumbled Anderson as he glared at everyone at the table, "about families, fortune, and prosperity, Lark. But you don't know the meaning of any of those. Prosperity? You think this" (he gestured around the table) "is a prosperous business. _What_ prosperity, indeed. And fortune? Forget the money…Money and profits are meaningless. Don Falcone… _he_ knew the meaning of family. The old times have certainly gone; in its place: mediocrity."

"Yes," Sylvia mused, "He hid his family—both his son and daughter—from all of this, decided to retire, and he's been living on a beach somewhere down South, in hiding, but happy. By all means, Anderson, if you want to follow him, you're more than welcome to leave. No one here would stop you. The old times _are_ gone. New management, new rules."

"Falcone knew the meaning of family. Knew it. Knew it _well_. After how you've treated us…how you treated my _son…_ he'd be so disappointed in you. Both in you, in your husband…"

Sylvia put her hands on her hips, then stared up at the ceiling where she was hoping a jug of patience might fall so she could acquire some. However, when nothing of the sort came from the heavens, she decided to move on.

"What do you want, Anderson? Hm?" Sylvia asked unhappily. "Falcone isn't here. He's not been in charge since Oswald took over, and you're _still_ living in the past."

"You won't ever be Queen. Don't care who thinks it, who says it, or believes it. You think a woman can be in charge…"

"A woman _is_ in charge, buddy," Sylvia snapped, "And if you want a fucking foot in your mouth, _literally_ , I hope your next words are either an apology or silence."

Anderson frowned, still, but at least he said nothing else.

Oswald came back shortly after putting Csilla to sleep, his return making the head of the families either sigh in both exasperation or in relief. Either way, Oswald gently touched Sylvia's shoulder; she looked at him pointedly.

"Is everything all right?" He asked, glancing at all of them then to her once more.

"Your people are fussier than _she_ is." Sylvia uttered in annoyance.

Oswald watched her leave the room, her heels clicking the tile so harshly that he winced upon her exit. He sighed deeply, turning to everyone with a pointed look, saying, "Do I want to know what any of that was about?"

"No sir," they all said almost unanimously.


	3. A Terrible Fear

Chapter Three: A Terrible Fear

* * *

 _Soft cries. Not screams, just cries._

 _Sylvia opened her eyes, suddenly alert, even as she lied in bed on her back. She looked to her right where Oswald was soundly sleeping on his side. Normally his quiet breathing would lull her back to sleep; however, Sylvia found herself profoundly awake._

 _The red LED light on the baby monitor shone brightly on the bedside table nearest to her, and from the speaker came louder cries. While Csilla didn't sound distressed, per se, it still affected Sylvia in such a way that she gathered the covers off her feet and started heading in the direction of her daughter's bedroom._

 _Her bare feet fell like soft padded shoes on the cold wooden planks in the corridor. Blatantly looking at the pictures she'd passed frequently but only now recognizing the antiquity of their black and white fills…feeling the air around her darken as though she had stumbled into a portal that led to a cave instead of her own home._

 _Why did the air suddenly feel so cold? The temperature alone sent a chill down her back, alighting her skin with goose bumps. Sylvia cleared her throat, perhaps to make any sound to prove that she wasn't in an odd twilight zone, but within the safe confines of her own home._

 _Feeling more paranoid and less secure, Sylvia quickened her steps. As she opened the door to Csilla's room, she gasped, seeing someone standing at the foot of her bed. Like a dark figure. Quickly, Sylvia flipped the switch along the wall adjacent to the door, and light flooded into the room._

 _It was Demetri._

 _He stood beside the crib, eyes cast downwards at the baby. His hand in the crib, as though he might have been…surely, he wasn't trying to…!?_

"What are you doing _?" Sylvia questioned sternly, seeing him there._

 _Demetri looked up at her, a little surprised by her tone, and he lifted his hand from the crib to reveal a stuffed teddy bear; innocently, his other hand raised to an open palm._

" _I was in the kitchen," he said cautiously, stepping back. "I-I heard the baby monitor in the kitchen, and she sounded upset s-so I found a doll and I was going to give it to her and I didn't want to disturb you or Mr. Penguin so—"_

 _Sylvia glanced between his fearful face, to the teddy bear, and then she quickly walked to the crib. Her eyes flickered over her three-week old baby, who looked up at her. Still not quite making eye contact with anyone, but hearing her movement and Demetri's and following those sounds attentively._

" _Miss Sylvia, I swear I was only going to give her the doll," Demetri promised. "Nothing else—how could I do anything else; I'm not that type of person, I wouldn't—"_

"Shh _."_

 _Demetri immediately closed his mouth, lips tightly sealed as Sylvia waved him back as she took his spot nearest to Csilla. When Sylvia reached down and placed her hand on Csilla's stomach, the baby responded, reaching back out to touch the back of her hand._

" _How's my little sweetheart doing?" Sylvia said sweetly, smiling when Csilla responded with a coo then a gurgle. As though she could recognize her voice._

 _After a moment, Demetri lowered his hands, holding the doll with both of them, standing far enough away from both females that there was no reason why Sylvia could remain paranoid. When Csilla seemed to fall back to sleep, Sylvia clasped her hands together, turning around so she faced him completely._

" _Bad dreams, Miss Sylvia?" He asked._

" _Some of the worst, yes," Sylvia admitted as she sat in the rocking chair. She started rocking in it slightly back and forth, the heels of her feet lifting and then falling with its steady momentum._

" _About her?"_

" _Some of them are about her, yes."_

" _I guess I'm in them, huh." Demetri assumed halfheartedly, smiling weakly but the tone of his voice dropped to one of disappointment and reluctant knowing._

 _Sylvia looked at him, hoping to reject his assumptions; instead, she did no such thing. She gestured to a wooden chair that was placed against the window farthest from the crib, silently inviting him to sit with her._

" _You know," Demetri began dispassionately as he dragged the chair over, "I was hoping that after all this time…maybe you'd think better of me."_

" _What makes you think I don't?"_

" _You were dreaming that I might hurt Csilla," He said, looking at her pointedly. "That's why you came in here, right? Because you thought someone was going to hurt her? I guess it doesn't help that you saw me in here too."_

" _Why do you think that?" Sylvia questioned, smiling in spite of herself._

" _How can I not?"_

" _I'm just saying: that's pretty specific."_

 _Demetri gestured to the door then to her, saying respectively, "I saw you coming in. The way you looked at me from the hallway…I didn't like it."_

 _Sylvia chuckled embarrassingly, "I can't help whatever look I made. Like you said, I didn't know it was you that was in here."_

" _No, but you knew someone was in the room."_

" _Yeah…I felt it."_

" _Well, you came in here pretty quick." Demetri explained, smiling nervously. "I've heard things, what a parent will do to protect their kids. You looked like you were ready to do the unthinkable."_

" _I suppose I was."_

" _Could you?"_

" _Could I what?"_

 _Demetri said curiously, "If I'd been trying to hurt your daughter, would you have tried to kill me?"_

" _Without hesitation," Sylvia answered._

" _Really…?"_

 _Sylvia cocked her head to the side and said defensively, "Do you believe I'm incapable?"_

" _Well, that depends."_

" _On?"_

" _How quickly you catch on," Demetri answered._

 _Sylvia stared at him for a half-second, disturbed by his response. That was until he suddenly pulled out a gun from behind his back, stood, took two steps over to Csilla's crib, aimed the gun at her, and then pulled the trigger._

" _NOOO!"_

Sylvia sat up suddenly, screaming as she did, her eyes open. The room spun for only a few minutes as her heart beat so hard it threatened to punch a hole through her chest as she tried to catch her breath. Hyperventilating in the blackness of the room, hands searching for the end of the covers as she scrambled out of the bed, only to fall down on the carpeted floor. Somewhere around her was Oswald saying her name repeatedly, but it sounded as though he was miles away.

She ran down the hall, harrowing down until she nearly broke down the door to Csilla's room, finding no one in there but still sprinting to the crib, painstakingly looking down until she saw the baby. Her hand shot forward, taking Csilla's arm and shaking it until the baby responded furiously for having been woken up at an odd hour in the night.

Behind her was Oswald, who entered the room looking at her in both fear, confusion, and concern.

"What the hell is going on?" He asked loudly. "What's happening? Is she alright?"

Seeing Csilla move, seeing her alive, Sylvia unsteadily lowered herself to the ground so she stood on her knees, her hands gripping the bars of the crib as tears of relief escaped her eyes and rolled down her chin. Tangles of hair matted themselves to her sweaty cheeks and forehead as she looked up at Oswald with such relief that it made Oswald a little calmer, although the brief picture of Sylvia's fear and helplessness would forever be imprinted in his memory.

"Sylvia, what happened?" Oswald asked uncertainly, taking her hands and getting down on the floor with her.

"Demetri…" Sylvia whimpered. "I dreamed—I thought at first…!"

"Demetri did what. I can't understand what you're saying!"

"I'm sorry," She cried.

She continued to blabber something else but her sobs deafened her words so much that Oswald couldn't make any of it out. All he understood was that she had some nightmare, a nightmare so vivid that it had her sprinting out of the room in desperate cries and unforgivable panic…and it involved Demetri somehow.

"Shh," Oswald comforted, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her to him. "It's okay now, Pigeon. It's okay…"

Sensing her distress, Csilla let out a fearful whimper and a hiccup. Oswald poked his hand through the crib's bars, gently stroking Csilla's arm until the baby seemed to fall back asleep. Then he returned his hand to Sylvia's head, rubbing the back of her neck as she buried her face into his chest, her fingers clenching handfuls of his pajama shirt from the back.

It seemed to take an hour to fully console her. To settle down, Oswald coaxed her to the kitchen where he made a small pot of tea, pouring her a hot cup, and one for himself. Sensing that she'd have trouble falling back to sleep, he added a few drops of Melatonin from the bottle kept in the medicine cabinet, stirring it, then placing the cup on a saucer in front of her. He sat directly beside her at the dining table, watching her.

"Are you feeling better?" Oswald asked tenderly as she brushed a hand through her hair, the sweaty locks straightening over the top of her head and then falling over her shoulders once she withdrew her hand.

"I guess I am," Sylvia answered, although it seemed that she might've been on the verge of another crying spell. She sniffed a few times then timidly drank from her cup of tea, resting it on the saucer seconds after. "It's just…Oswald, it was so real. _So_ real. I can't explain it."

"It was a dream, then?"

"A nightmare. One of the worst," She whispered, glancing at him. The collar and back of her night slip had changed from its satin baby blue to a sort of gray teal, darkened by sweat.

Oswald drank from his cup, asking after, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know…"

"It might make you feel better."

"Or worse," Sylvia returned, glancing at him.

"It didn't happen," Oswald reassured. "You saw her yourself. Csilla's awake, healthy. As are you. As am I."

"I know that now."

"You were having a hard time knowing that a few moments ago."

"I guess I was," She agreed, nodding in return. She clasped the cup with both hands, her thumbs tracing the top end of the handle, adding, "It was so real though. So real…I mean, I'm glad it wasn't, but Oswald, this wasn't a normal dream. It was so vivid. I felt everything around me, everything _in_ me was real."

"Would you feel comfortable telling me about it? It might make the dream less terrifying if you did."

Sylvia attempted to speak with a forced calm, but instead it came out shakily, "Dream or not, Oz…it terrified me."

Oswald gestured for her to continue, then rested a hand on her wrist, his fingers lightly stroking over her knuckles in an attempt to reassure her once more.

"I have no reservations about that," He told her wholeheartedly.

"I'd dreamt that he killed her." Sylvia whispered, her gaze turning upwards to the floor above them. "He killed her, shot her dead in her own crib."

"Demetri, you mean."

" _Yes_ ," She whispered dreadfully.

"He'd proven himself to you a long time ago, though."

"Of course he did. I'd trust him with my life by now. So would you."

Oswald nodded in agreement, his eyes flickering between her face, her trembling hands, and the steadiness of his own. He noted quietly, "You're right. I do trust him. So it's interesting that you would dream something like this…something so traumatic."

Sylvia nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip as she murmured, "I was so scared that it happened, that I hadn't done more to save her, and…I hadn't done enough to protect her. I'd stood there—like an _idiot_ —!"

Oswald shook his head, taking her hand firmly in his, saying, "It didn't happen, remember?"

"It didn't happen, sure, but that doesn't make me feel any less of a terrible person. Dreams are the portal to a person's subconscious. What we dream, what we do—it's all somehow intertwined," Sylvia insisted. "Why would a mother not do anything to protect her own child? I mean, I could feel something bad was going to happen. I sensed it, _felt_ it. I knew it somehow. But I still let it happen."

"Let _what_ happen? You didn't let anything happen. It was a dream."

"Still!"

"You're under a lot of stress," Oswald reminded gingerly. "We both are."

Sylvia leaned forward, saying weakly, "It was so real, Oswald." And she broke down into another spell of tears. "What if my dreams are trying to tell me something? About us—about Demetri—about _her…!"_

Oswald scooted his cup of tea and saucer from him and he leaned over to Sylvia so he could bring her towards him again. He embraced her close, rubbing her back with one hand while the other gently massaged the back of her head, hoping that he could calm what was left of her fear and panic.

"Demetri is loyal," Oswald reassured. "He's proven himself many times. He has helped us so much, Sylvia, and look how gentle and sweet he is with Csilla, reading to her, changing her… Have you seen how he is with her?"

"Yes," Sylvia answered, nodding. "I know, but…"

But there was nothing else she could say. Her dreams were the remnants, it seemed, of what was left of her paranoia, her distrust of Demetri and all he'd done in the past with Delilah. What was she trying to say? That after all his good deeds and attempts to prove he loved his job and his devotion towards her own ambitions were supposed to be overruled by a dream caused by self-induced stress and panic?

"I'm scared," Sylvia confessed in a small voice. "I'm just _so_ scared something might happen to her."

Oswald was quiet, waiting for her tears and sobs to subside. He kissed her cheek, and uttered in a voice softer than a whisper, "Me too, Pigeon. I'm scared too."

* * *

Sylvia took hold of the Underworld, working mornings from the mansion (so she could be with Csilla) and in the evenings, at her club. In the weeks that followed the nightmare that left her in near-trepidation for the well-being of her daughter, its traumatic hold on her slowly dulled to that of a blur. During this time, Demetri played with Csilla, nurturing her and providing more than efficient care as an unofficial built-in nanny.

Following Oswald's victory of entering the Mayor's office, loose ends and vital proceedings had to be tied off and accomplished.

A victorious celebration would come eventually, Oswald decided, but only after his mayoral priorities were restored, balanced, and checked off, including but not limited to: meeting with the Board of Education regarding Oswald's interests in improving the children's school of conduct that had been demanded by the parents of many; the rectification and rebuilding of a church that had been long ago abandoned due to mealy asbestos; the reconstruction of the roads that paved Gotham that had, by far, seen better days; and, of course, a far more qualified doctor to take the position of Head of Psychiatry within Arkham Asylum now that Dr. Hugo Strange had—in the press' opinion—disappeared.

Edward Nygma worked alongside Oswald, accompanying him on the majority as advisor and companion. After a day that had been filled to the brim with congenial press conferences, and get-togethers that involved mingling with the elite of Gotham, both Ed and Oswald came into the mansion, a little tired, but content.

Sylvia and Demetri were sitting in the living room, together on the couch. Demetri held Csilla in his arms; she sat upright, her back leaned against his stomach while Sylvia had finished slipping one of the two black-and-red socks on one of Csilla's feet. As stubborn as Csilla was, she bobbed her foot up and down, trying to get away from the pair of hands that were persistent in putting on the last sock.

"Stop it," Sylvia warned, looking at her. "I said _stop_."

"Ma-ma-ma-ma," Csilla whined, shaking her head.

"Not even seven months old," Sylvia chastised, "and you're already stubborn as a mule."

"I wouldn't expect anything different from her," Oswald said, walking fully into the living room. As he did, Demetri and Sylvia glanced at him, as well as Ed, who came into the room, his hands clasped together as he smiled.

Seeing Oswald, Csilla's bright blue eyes lit up with a twinkle. Her arms stretched out, her hands clenching closed and open as she said excitedly, "Da-da-da!"

Ed chuckled, "She's starting to talk."

"Mm-hmm," Sylvia mused, leaning back into the couch. She smiled as Oswald sat beside her.

Gingerly, Demetri lifted the baby off his lap and handed her over to his left; Sylvia passed the baby onto Oswald, who, just as tenderly, gathered her in his arms. Not at all in the mood to cuddle or be cuddled, Csilla immediately shook her head, wiggled for a moment and sat up, facing Oswald personally. She cracked a grin.

"What have you been up to, Turtle Dove?" Oswald asked sweetly.

"Da-da-da..." Csilla cooed, and she let out a gurgle then another giggle.

Sylvia looked at Ed, saying, "So, how was the field trip?"

"Meeting here, meeting there," He answered, shrugging nonchalantly. "A fortuitous day: productive, at least."

Demetri stood, turning to speak to Sylvia, saying politely, "I might turn in for the day. Do you mind, Miss Sylvia?"

"No. Go 'head—you've earned it. Thank you so much for your help today."

Demetri bowed his head respectfully, then as politely addressed the others: "Mr. Nygma, Mr. Penguin…Good night."

They returned the same sentiment. Watching him leave, Ed crossed a leg over his knee, his eyes following him until the gentleman was out of the room and out of ear shot. Sylvia noticed, and she smirked when Ed met her equally curious gaze.

"What?" He said, startled.

"What was that look?" Sylvia questioned, gesturing to him.

"What look?"

"Csilla, that's not a toy." Oswald reprimanded.

Sylvia and Ed paused their discussion, turning their attention to him. On his lap, Csilla had reached up to Oswald's tie, and started playing with it, batting it up and down like she was trying to either whip him into shape or tear it off. At his scolding, Csilla looked at him, as though she might've understood his warning, but then she cracked another wide grin and started playing with his tie again.

"Csilla…" Oswald warned, and that caused her to pause again in her musings. "That's right. You know that tone, don't you."

Then she giggled, the smile reaching her eyes as she started to roll off him. Although she hadn't perfected the crawl just yet, she was getting closer. Leaning forward, her hands reached out to touch the cushions; Oswald quickly put his hand on her forehead so when she face-planted Sylvia's thigh, it hadn't caused her too much of a shock.

"The insubordination in this one," Oswald sighed, smiling in spite of it as Csilla let out a sigh of frustration as she struggled to pull herself upright. He glanced at Sylvia, adding, "Reminds me of someone."

"Don't look at _me,_ " Sylvia returned, smirking. "She's _your_ daughter."

Ed said lightly, "Have you had any more nightmares, Liv?"

That pulled Sylvia's attention from Csilla and she looked at Ed: "What nightmares?"

"About…?" Ed emphasized, his head nodded in the direction of the staircase where Demetri had ascended earlier.

"No," Sylvia answered. "I haven't. I mean, I don't know why I had them about him in the first place..."

"Stress is common in new parenthood," Ed said sympathetically. "It can bring on fears you never knew you had."

Csilla squealed, sitting between Oswald and Sylvia, as though she was a squished couch pillow. All three adults minded her as she started crawling out of the space, making her way over Sylvia's lap and reaching out to Ed, who laughed heartily the moment Csilla started pointing at him, her eyes wide in curiosity.

"Poofa gab la la la la la," Csilla babbled, pointing at Ed. "Ga la la la la…"

"What?" Ed inquired.

Oswald translated, "She wants you to hold her."

"She didn't say that."

"No, not directly," Sylvia agreed. "But that's what she wants."

"Do you mind?" Ed asked both Cobblepots.

"By all means." Sylvia returned, smiling. She stood, taking Csilla with her. Then she placed the baby on Ed's lap, where Csilla stared up at Ed, eyes still wide and her mouth partly open in wonder.

"Who is that, Csilla?" Sylvia cooed, grinning widely as the baby started playing with Ed's tie, this time. She did the same to it as she had done with Oswald's: holding the tail end while batting it up and down, up and down, watching it in short waves.

"What _am_ I to her anyway?" Ed asked curiously, watching her.

"Just call yourself 'Uncle Ed'," Sylvia mused, sitting back down. As she did, Oswald's arm settled around her shoulder. She looked at Oswald, asking, "How was the visit to Arkham? Did you find anyone to take Strange's place as Head of Psychiatry, or…?"

"The gentleman who assisted me in getting Ed out of Arkham," Oswald told her. "That is who is in charge of Arkham now."

"He's such a skittish fellow, though."

"I'd have to agree."

"And you think he'll run Arkham appropriately?"

"I think he's capable of it, yes," Oswald assured.

"Did you meet with the Board?"

Ed chimed in with the answer, "They're a narcissistic bunch."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, asking, "What do you mean?"

"A bunch of morons who call themselves the 'Board of Education'. They hold themselves in such a high regard—if I was in your position," Ed said half-heartedly, "I'd be homeschooling this one" (He held the baby by her sides so she was safely mounted as he bounced his knees so she could enjoy the ride) "not subjugating her mind to a bunch of people who think they know the value of education."

Csilla squeaked in happiness, smiling at Ed. Then she hiccuped.

"Homeschooling," Sylvia repeated. She glanced at Oswald: "I've not even thought about her school yet."

"I could teach her a few things," Ed offered. "A basic round of mathematics; history, geography, even."

"She's six months old," She reminded. "She can't even speak yet."

"She'll be on her way," Ed encouraged. He stopped bouncing his knees so Csilla let out a protest, then he said specifically to her, "You'll be our little Pointdexter, won't you?"

She cocked her head to the side, inquisitive.

"Say it with me," Ed said, smiling. "Point…Dexter."

"Ba-ba-ba…"

"It's a 'P' sound. Not a 'B'."

"Ba-ba-ba…" Csilla babbled.

"She can't say her 'P's." Sylvia explained.

"Say Ed." Ed offered. "Eh-Da."

"Eh-eh-eh-eh," Csilla said, staring at him. Or rather, at his mouth. She was copying him. "Eh-eh-eh-eh…"

Oswald was watching the interaction with prior amusement. A thought occurred to him, almost arbitrarily as he asked, "Sylvia, have you taken her out of the house yet?"

Sylvia stared at him, saying, "I haven't. Been afraid to do that, actually."

"Why?" Ed asked.

"Because Gotham sucks," Sylvia answered defensively. "And she's only a baby. I don't know how I feel about taking her out of the house…it's so dangerous.."

"She's in the house when you have the heads of the Five Families meet," Ed reminded. "She's been exposed already to some of the most vicious criminals in Gotham, and you're worried she might catch a bug if she steps one foot outside?"

Csilla glanced at Ed, then at her parents, then back at Ed, babbling throughout the conversation as though she was trying to put in her own two cents.

"Well, gee, when you put it like that, you make me sound stupid."

"I'm not saying you're stupid, Liv. But Oswald's the Mayor," Ed continued, gesturing to Oswald as he spoke of him. "And you're the First Lady. The people of Gotham like celebrities, and they're going to want to see this one" (he gestured to the baby) "so taking her out of the house might do her some good."

"I don't know…" Sylvia mumbled.

Oswald leaned in, kissing her cheek as he said reassuringly, "It'll be fine, Pigeon."

"But Oz…"

Ed encouraged, "She'll be around family the entire time."

Sylvia glanced at the two men uncertainly, her eyes meeting Csilla's a moment after. The little girl sent the most determined look at her, and Sylvia waved her hands in reluctant submission.

"How was _your_ day?" Oswald asked gently, his hand lightly massaging her shoulder farthest from him.

"Long," She answered. "Tommy Bones decided he was going to be funny, brought in a clown to amuse Csilla."

"A clown?" Ed inquired.

"Like 'Bozo the Clown'." Sylvia specified. "Tell me, you two. When you think of clowns, do you think of them twisting balloons into animal-shaped figures, or something?"

"Basically, yes," Ed agreed. "They can be pretty amusing if they work hard enough."

Oswald uttered spitefully, "I don't care much for clowns, myself."

"You don't find them funny?"

"They're a waste of time, if you ask me. Especially the ones in this town," Oswald explained.

"Well," Sylvia chimed in candidly, "it's funny you say that, Oz."

"Why?"

"Csilla didn't seem to care for them either."

Oswald and Ed exchanged concerned expressions before Sylvia pulled something out from in between the cushions of the couch, and held out a small red ball.

"Isn't that the nose?" Ed asked, pointing at it.

"Indeed, it is. The clown tried to make a dog-balloon for her," Sylvia explained. "She hated Bozo so much, she grabbed this, and yanked it off his face. She was screaming for about an hour, after. I had to leave the room to calm her down."

"So, I'm guessing if Valeska ever tried to entertain her…" Ed teased.

"She might bite his nose," Sylvia guessed. "Or something less extreme. Tommy Bones never looked more embarrassed."

"Did anything else happen?" Oswald asked curiously.

"I spoke with the Dray Family, the Maronis, and the Paddock Family, separately. They're still more than happy to keep with the old times," Sylvia continued lightly. "The old ways are gone, they said. New rules, new management…new era. Belich doesn't care who's in charge as long as he and his people are getting reasonably paid for their loyalty."

"And Anderson?" asked Ed expectantly. "I'm guessing he's still in a mood?"

"When is he not?"

"Well, you killed his son. That's what I've gathered from watching the proceedings. I can't imagine he'd let that go too quickly."

"It's been over a year."

"A parent wouldn't get over something like that," Ed reminded. "He's probably looking for a way to reek his vengeance for what he's lost. I'm surprised you've not taken care of that little problem; it might pose one later in the future."

Sylvia leaned forward, saying malevolently, "You think Anderson would hurt Csilla over what I'd done to Drake?"

"You killed him."

"He deserved it," Sylvia reminded. "You weren't there for the conversation, Ed, so I don't blame you for wanting to take his side, but he _gave_ me permission to punish his son for his mutiny. I even told him what my punishment would be—that Drake's insubordination would warrant death. And it was his father who _gave_ me that permission to dispense that punishment."

Ed smiled offhandedly as Csilla babbled loudly, then she quieted over a few seconds. He looked at Sylvia, saying, "Maybe he didn't think you would carry it out."

"Then he's a moron." Sylvia answered despondently. "Anderson has been in this business longer than either Oswald or I have, so he should just fucking know better."

"I'm just saying," Ed said calmly. "As long as you're in charge" (he gestured specifically to Sylvia) "Anderson will always be grumpy."

"Well, then, I hope he likes wrinkles," She retorted. "Because I'm not stepping down anytime soon."

Csilla suddenly cried. She blubbered, and her face contorted in an expression, suddenly very upset. Hearing her cry so abruptly, Ed jumped and he looked up at Sylvia and Oswald, uncertain of what to do at this point. As Sylvia stood to take her, Csilla let out a shriek so shrill that it nearly took her aback.

"Well, Oz, I guess she wants _you_ ," Sylvia said sarcastically, leaning back in her seat.

Oswald sighed deeply, but he stood and he walked over to Ed, who quickly lifted the baby to him as though at any moment, she'd detonate like a bomb. Once Csilla was in Oswald's arms, she was still a crying mess, but her screams had softened at least.

"See," Oswald said calmly. "None of that screaming was necessary. Now, don't _we_ feel foolish?"

Csilla looked at him, eyes still wide as ever, tears dribbling down her cheeks in big drops. Her hair had been neatly combed until she had shrieked her head off; her bangs were messy on her forehead, but even in their tangled knots, she still looked beautiful.

He held her in his left arm, her hand on the lapel of his suit, nearly gripping until he'd walked back over to the couch, sitting beside Sylvia once more.

"She's turning into a real Daddy's girl, isn't she," Ed teased, smirking.

"She really is," Sylvia agreed, grinning widely. She winked at Oswald: "But who doesn't love Daddy."


	4. Uncle Jimmy

Chapter Four: Uncle Jimmy

She'd taken Ed's suggestion of getting Csilla out of the house. Some of that good ole Gotham air would do her good, she figured, and seeing a few people that were _not_ criminals might influence a good mood where Csilla had been in such a bad one that Sylvia couldn't even properly get her changed.

She first brought her to the GCPD station. A bunch of cops: might have been the safest place to go in order to introduce Csilla to strangers. At this point, Csilla could recognize Sylvia's voice, responding to it as well as seeing her with a smile or a gurgle of familiarity.

The moment Sylvia entered the police station with a baby, it was like a magnet for attention. The first to come was Harvey Bullock, who, when he saw the resemblance of both Sylvia and Oswald in her, he let out a low whistle to which Csilla opened her mouth, narrowing the shape to a small 'O', and tried to mimic him.

Dressed in a pair of small black capris, red sweatshirt, and the smallest ballerina shoes ever known to mankind, Csilla stared at Harvey from Sylvia's lap, those wide cerulean eyes staring up at him. Her bangs had been pulled back with a small purple butterfly barrette.

"She's growing like a weed," Harvey chortled as he sat on the edge of his desk (He let Sylvia have his chair.).

"Yes, she has."

"I'd ask to hold her, but…" Harvey held up his hands, showing that he had some doughnut powder on them. "She looks like a princess, and I doubt she'd want ole Uncle Harv's cooties. Isn't that right.." A slew of baby talk came from him after, to which Csilla giggled.

When she did, Harvey genuinely laughed. He looked at Sylvia, saying seriously, "How have you been?"

"I've been."

"How's the motherhood working for you?"

"It's been interesting so far."

"Finally getting her on a sleeping schedule?"

"She can sleep about six hours," Sylvia said, nodding.

"Straight six hours?"

"Straight six hours."

"Damn, she's getting more than _me_ then, that's for sure." Harvey said, shaking his head with a small smile. "How's the uh…the Mayor? I'm guessing he's all right too?"

"He's just fine, Harvey."

"Nice to see you all getting a nice routine down, you know. Mayoral duties here, Underworld duties there. Still managing the nice house, the white picket fence, this little angel…" Harvey continued, smirking. "Pretty soon, you'll have a lot more to deal with, once she starts dating people."

"Not until she's older, of course."

"So what, you're think fifteen or something?"

"It depends on who you ask," Sylvia replied, chuckling. "I don't care if she starts dating when she's fifteen. Her father, on the other hand: no dating until she's twenty-five."

"Typical father-with-the-shotgun," Harvey said amusedly. "Well, for once, I agree with your bird husband. He's got a point. But you'll have a hard time batting off those sons-of-bitches. Look at all of that hair, and those purty eyes."

A voice said sweetly, "I thought I heard someone brought in a baby!"

Sylvia glanced up to see Lee coming her way, wearing a lab coat over a dark sweater and jeans. Seeing Csilla, Lee's eyes twinkled and she grinned widely.

"Good morning, Lee," Sylvia greeted.

"Morning to you too. So this is the little one," Lee said candidly, grinning down at the baby. "How old?"

"Six months, two weeks."

"She's growing so big!" Lee exclaimed. She bent down at the waist, so she was eye level with Csilla, as she spoke gently to the little girl: "Hello there, Sweetie. I'm Lee, what's your name?"

"S-s-s-s-s," Csilla responded. Some drool came out of her mouth in a small spittle. "S-s-s-s-s!"

"She's trying to say her name," Lee gushed. "That is _so_ adorable."

Harvey patted Sylvia on the shoulder saying, "Hey, I've gotta take care of something, real quick. It was nice seeing you again. Cute kid." He left shortly after kissing her on the head, and he didn't even try to touch the baby in any case she considered him a stranger. Once he was gone, Csilla turned her attention back to the woman in front of her.

Lee pulled a chair, sitting directly in front of Sylvia. She was trying to coax the baby to her, but even as Lee looked so friendly and genuine, Csilla refused to take the bait. She lifted her eyes up, leaning her back against Sylvia's stomach so Sylvia looked down and met them.

"You can go over to her," Sylvia said lightly. "She won't hurt you."

"Wha-wha-wha-wha...oo-ooh…"

"My," Lee snickered, "isn't _she_ a talker."

"Ma-ma-ma-ma. Ba-a-a…"

" _Takes after her mother, I guess."_

Lee and Sylvia both turned to see Jim coming up the stairs. He looked as though he came back from yet another mission but his resolve was still there and he appeared humored to see Sylvia and Lee sitting together, a babbling child that looked too much like Oswald and already acted too much like Sylvia to be a simple coincidence for a visit. Seeing Jim, Lee cleared her throat and stood, politely excusing herself. As she left to continue whatever was left of her job in the Medical Examiner's lab, Jim watched after her.

"I know that longing face." Sylvia said knowingly, her gaze transfixed on Jim, who took Lee's chair, sitting in it.

"What face?" Jim said, playing ignorant.

"You _know_ the face. I'm guessing you two've talked?"

"Something like that."

"And?"

"Nothing much to talk about," Jim responded, shrugging. "She moved on. So have I. She's getting married to a doctor, and I'm…Well, I'm here."

Sylvia sighed, and Csilla looked at Jim with an idle stare.

"Cute kid," Jim commented, smiling at her. "Look at those eyes."

"Yep," sighed Sylvia. "She's a heart breaker."

"How old is she?"

"Six months, two weeks."

"Growing like a weed."

"Growing fast." Sylvia agreed. She wrapped her arms around Csilla's stomach and said playfully, "Who's that man, Csilla? Hmm? Who's that gruff, grumpy looking man, huh? That's your Uncle Jimmy, little one. Uncle Jimmy, say hello."

Jim waved, and then something clicked in him. Something Sylvia had never seen before. There was an inner child in him, coming out. He started making faces at her; and Csilla tried doing the same faces, returning it immediately. When he crossed his eyes, she tried crossing hers. When he opened his mouth widely; she opened hers in the same fashion.

He put his hands over his face, and started playing peek-a-boo. When he 'disappeared', Csilla giggled. When he 're-appeared', she shrieked in surprise and then laughter. The smile lit her eyes, and Jim laughed when Csilla bounced up and down in excitement.

"I've never seen this side of you," Sylvia exclaimed, gesturing to him.

"Well…" Jim returned, shrugging modestly.

He leaned forward, slowly taking his hands and moving them towards Csilla, who started shrieking in suspenseful giggles. And as Jim tickled her belly, Csilla kicked her feet at him, trying to make him stop, but that didn't take away from her laughter.

"She loves this game," Jim said, entertained.

"Yeah, she does," Sylvia agreed. "She likes the tickle monster."

"Do you do the tickle monster?"

"No. Oswald does."

Jim blinked and said incredulously, " _Oswald_ does the 'Tickle Monster'?"

"Yeah."

"Penguin."

" _Yes_ ," Sylvia snickered. "What, you think just because he's a crime lord, he doesn't play with her?"

"What about Peek-A-Boo?" Jim asked, almost defensively.

"That's my game." Sylvia returned.

"What about bouncing her on the knee?"

"Ed's game."

"Ed…?"

"Mm-hm."

"Edward Nygma."

"Yes, Jim." Sylvia said calmly.

"You let him around my niece?"

"Yes. He _can_ be around children, Jimmy. He's not a fucking pedophile or some sicko."

"He's a criminal."

"Well, so is Oswald. So am I."

Jim straightened, his laughter sobering and so had his amusement as he said, "So you'll let your daughter around anyone and everyone."

"Not without supervision, no." Sylvia said coolly. "I admit, I _love_ seeing this protective Uncle side of you coming out to play, but I hope you watch your tone carefully. Oswald and I are very protective of her, too. We don't let anyone around her unless we trust them."

"What about the Duke and Tommy Bones?"

"I don't think so. She didn't care much for Tommy Bones," Sylvia explained. "He brought a clown to the party, thinking he'd impress her."

"And?"

"She tore the clown's nose off." Sylvia returned.

"A reasonable reaction, I think. I don't care much for clowns in this town either."

"Who does, really."

Jim crossed his arms, his frown deepening but then Csilla let out a raspberry and he cracked a grin.

"So, how've you been otherwise?" asked Jim.

"Pretty good."

"And how's Oswald?"

"He's doing well too."

"Have you been sleeping?"

"Better than you," Sylvia confirmed. "Are you still trying to duke it out with this infatuation you have for the reporter?"

"Vale and I are fine, thanks for asking."

"Well, I didn't ask that but that's good to know."

"Vee," Jim sighed, leaning forward again. "I know you were hoping for Lee and me to get back together, but you know, that's in the past. It's done… _we're_ done."

"So you think," Sylvia said with a sly smile. "Love has a way of bringing two people back together. Even if they think they can't or won't ever be together again."

"I like your faith," Jim told her, "but I think you're barking up the wrong tree."

"May be, but I still have hope that you two will come back together again."

"Only the future can tell."

"Indeed." Sylvia agreed.

Csilla let out a whine, looking up at her.

"Oh, dear…" Sylvia murmured. "Someone's starting to get hungry. I have her food in the car. It's time for me to get going anyway. I have to drop by the club, see how everyone else is doing."

"You're taking a baby to a bar?" Jim questioned, surprised.

"Well, I'm not forcing her to _drink_ , James. Damn…what kind of mother do you think I am?"

Jim grinned knowingly at her but didn't say anything to that fact.


	5. Intimacy

Chapter Five: Intimacy

* * *

In the living room, Sylvia and Oswald sat on the floor with Csilla. She was seven-months-old, and crawling. Oswald grinned from ear-to-ear as Csilla puttered her way over to him, occasionally smacking the floor with her face before grabbing onto his pant leg and pulling the rest of the way to him. Steadily, with Oswald's encouragement and holding onto his wrists for dear life, Csilla stood on her feet in a wobbly stance.

"So strong, my little Turtledove," Oswald praised, grinning at her. When he smiled, Csilla cracked a grin of her own, showing two teeth. "Okay, now go to Mommy!" He gently turned her so Csilla faced Sylvia's direction and unsteadily lowered herself to her hands and knees, and did a scooting-crawling effect.

"Ooh, look at her go!" Sylvia cooed, holding her hands out. "C'mon, precious. C'mon, you're almost there!"

Csilla's success in catching Sylvia's hand was met with praise from both parents and the baby squealed happily, waving her hands with little control or barrier. Then she yawned big, and made a whine, sitting against Sylvia's stomach.

"Someone's tired," Oswald noted.

"I have a pacifier on the dining table," Sylvia returned, smiling sweetly at him. "I'll get it…"

"Oh, no, I will." He reassured quickly.

She watched him steadily get to his feet, taking his cane that he'd laid across the couch cushions and he dutifully left the living room, returning shortly with the baby's pacifier, and handing it to her. Sylvia lovingly thanked him, and he kissed her briefly on the lips; an action that Csilla watched with wonder and curiosity. Then just as quickly as she had been curious, Csilla let out a frustrated scream.

"Calm down," Sylvia warned. "Remember, no screaming in…"

Csilla screamed just as she was putting her in the crook of her elbow. The baby knew she was going to have to take a nap and with any other time that she was being laid down to sleep, Csilla threw her tantrums and tried resisting it.

"Da-da-da!" Csilla cried, as she shook her entire body, trying to get out of Sylvia's embrace.

"No." Oswald chastised. "No. You need your sleep."

Hearing the word 'no', Csilla turned her head, looking at him inquisitively. A range of emotions breached her expression: from disappointment, to anger, and to fear. When her father clearly did not appear to be in any forgiving mood, Csilla pleaded with her mother, whining, "Ma-ma-ma-ma! Ma-ma!"

"No, Csilla." Sylvia reprimanded.

And after that, Csilla looked on in defeat, pouting her lips and lowering her eyebrows. For a second there, it appeared as though she might calm down, give into what was clearly inevitable. Instead, she started wriggling so much and fighting Sylvia's embrace that the kid nearly fell out of her arms.

"Csilla, stop it," She scolded. "It's sleepy time."

"Mm-mmm!"

Oswald sighed, and he held out his hands. Sylvia gave Csilla to him. He sat on the couch, leaned into the corner so that the baby was lying in an angle where she was more likely to fall asleep. Sylvia handed him a swaddling blanket that had been sitting on the armchair and like a perfectly oiled machine, their system started working. While Oswald provided the inarguable length of comfort, placing the pacifier in Csilla's mouth, Sylvia moved to the wall, and dimmed the lights above. As she did, she was humming a song.

Her soft vibrato and low timbre provided the nearly perfect pitch for a baby's lullaby. At first, Csilla was trying to fight the impending lull, but slowly stopped moving and closed her eyes. In about a half-hour, she was completely asleep. Oswald and Sylvia smiled at each other, nonverbally congratulating one another on yet one more Nap Time Mission success.

Gently as he could, Oswald handed Sylvia the baby; he watched her leave momentarily up the stairs and she came back, clicking the button on the baby monitor so they could continue to make sure that Csilla was safe and sound asleep.

They both exhaled deeply, nearly colliding together on the couch.

"At least she doesn't fight us nearly as long," Sylvia commended, smirking at him.

"Yes, I daresay we've established a near-perfect system," He agreed. He lied down on the couch, and she moved to lie on top of him. He looked up at her: "What are your plans tomorrow, Pigeon?"

"I don't know. I'm thinking of bringing her to the doctor for a check-up. Then after, if time allows, I might go to your press conference tomorrow."

Oswald said lightly, "It's going to be fairly short."

"The unveiling of the statue in remembrance of your mother," Sylvia recalled. "Short conference or not, I still want to be there. If I bring Csilla, it'll make it a 'monument-ous' occasion. Heh, see what I did there?"

Oswald gave her a look of little amusement but then he let out a breathy laugh, "Puns? Really?"

"Well, you laughed, so you can't really poke fun, hun."

"I guess not."

"I've finally gotten her to eat solids now," Sylvia said quietly. She nuzzled his neck, adding, "She likes her mashed potatoes. Pretty soon, she'll be gobbling hamburgers…fried chicken…She seems to like spaghetti enough."

"Do you cut up the noodles?"

"Of course, I do."

Oswald sat up; so, therefore, she did as well. As he did, he took her hand in his and she smiled endearingly at him.

Unexpectedly, he kissed her.

So suddenly as though he did little thinking prior to its precedence—as though he really needed to _think_ about kissing her, really! Sylvia let out a small gasp of surprise but in seconds she folded, melting like butter in his arms. His arms wrapped around her back, pulling her closer to him; Sylvia enclosed the space, running her hands through his hair.

She giggled quietly when she felt her back hit the other side of the couch. Her laugh was silenced when he kissed her harder, as though Oswald would die of starvation soon and she was his own lifeline to satiate his hunger. Sylvia craved this intimacy, having known from the start that it would be nearly nonexistent with his mayoral duties, and everyone stretching him in so many directions.

Perhaps he had realized just how long it had been since it had only been just the two of them in the room, no one else around to distract them. A tidal wave of raw passion and emotion clinging to every scrap of solitude that Oswald and Sylvia could find—not as just the crime lords of Gotham or as the parents of their newborn but as husband and wife—suddenly overflowing in the midst of an opportunity.

And just when things were getting hot and heavy, there was a startling cry from the baby monitor.

" _Fuck_ …" Sylvia grumbled.

Oswald kissed her cheek, murmuring, "Go to bed, Pigeon. I'll take care of her."

He reluctantly climbed off her and headed up the stairs to (hopefully) put Csilla back to sleep. As he did, Sylvia watched after him, before pointedly shoving her head into the couch cushions so she could silence her own resentment.

It was not often that she felt bitter about having a child. Perhaps having been pregnant might have been easier than having the baby outside of her body; she thought her life had been turned upside down back then. Man, she'd been wrong.

Despite her own selfish desire to have her previous life back, Sylvia could have easily erased those feelings as she stood in the doorway of the baby's room, watching Oswald sit in the rocking chair while he sang to Csilla. After he had gently laid the sleeping baby back in the crib, Oswald lifted the crib's gate. He started walking out of the room, momentarily taken back when he saw Sylvia leaned against the doorframe, watching him.

"You always tell me _I_ sing well," Sylvia told him with a sly little smile. "You have a nice set of pipes yourself, babe."

Oswald quietly laughed, modest as ever. They closed the bedroom door and headed to their own. Once their door was closed, Sylvia started towards the bed, but she was pulled back. Pleasantly, she turned to see that Oswald still held her hand; languidly, she moved towards him, grinning when he brought her closer to him. His arms wrapped around her waist; she did the same, linking her arms behind his neck.

"How do you feel about us?" Oswald asked gently, although Sylvia detected a more serious edge to his tone.

Hearing it, she confusedly gazed back at him, saying, "What do you mean?"

"Before I became Mayor," Oswald reminded lightly. "You mentioned to me that you may initially be understanding of my role…"

"…But that I might later resent you for it," Sylvia remembered, finishing it for him.

"Yes. Exactly that."

"Oh…"

"So?" Oswald encouraged, coaxing her with his eyes. "How do you feel about us?"

"I think you are still a very busy man," Sylvia returned honestly. She kissed his cheek, to which he responded with surprise, as she added, "But I didn't expect anything different to come from you. I _do_ have one complaint though, Mr. Mayor."

Oswald caught her teasing tone, and humored her: "That's very problematic for me. I care what my citizens have to say. What is _your_ complaint, Missus…?"

"Names aren't necessary," Sylvia said with a playful scrunch of her nose.

"I find them mandatory, at least."

"Mandatory, at _bes_ _t_."

"Is that really up for debate?"

"No-names is non-negotiable, Mr. Mayor," Sylvia whispered. She leaned in, kissed Oswald on the lips, and added smartly, "You'll do well to remember that the next time you visit my chambers, dear sir. Or else."

Oswald grinned as she pecked him on the cheek and she headed towards the bed. As before, he took her hand and pulled her back to him. Of course, this time, it wasn't nearly as gentle; instead, she collided with him and her back hit the door only seconds after as he pinned her against it.

"I don't care for your threat." Oswald uttered quietly.

Sylvia met his dangerous tone with a faux meekness as she returned submissively, "I'm sorry, sir." Her cynical side slipped out as she added, "I didn't realize you were such a hard ass."

"You'll do well to remember that."

"Next time, I will."

"Be sure that you do," Oswald reprimanded, smirking at her.

He lowered his lips in a trail of kisses from her cheek, down to her neck. He knew Sylvia could be a fantastical actress, especially when they role-played. The brief shudder that he felt when he kissed her ear with his tongue wasn't played by any means.

"I know we're just having fun and all," Sylvia murmured with a breathy giggle, "but you and your threats can be very convincing."

"So can you, my dear," Oswald agreed.

He brushed his lips against hers, his tongue ever so lightly pressing into the line that separated them. She parted her lips; he more than readily took the invitation. Oswald caressed her face within the palms of his hands, a bold feeling of excitement nestling deep within his stomach when he felt Sylvia's hands already wrestling with his belt buckle.

"For a citizen," Oswald murmured between kisses, "You're bold."

"Bold and beautiful," Sylvia remarked humorously. "And maybe a little nutty."

"I prefer 'eccentric'."

"Bold and 'eccentric'?" Sylvia repeated. She clicked her tongue, saying, "Not as catchy. Doesn't have the same alliteration."

"Just put that on the list of complaints."

"I've not even told you my first one, Mr. Mayor," Sylvia returned, grinning at him as she fully undid his belt. "But I know what's not going on my list." As a hint, she grabbed him through his trousers.

Oswald snatched her hands, and held them above her head. She looked at him pointedly, seeing if he had any response to that. Delighted, Sylvia watched him look at her; his eyes surveying her robe that was slowly sliding off her shoulder, the ruffled up baby blue night slip that brought out the submission within her cerulean blue eyes.

"Did you make an appointment, Ms. Gordon," Oswald questioned, smiling mischievously when Sylvia caught on to his scenario.

"No," Sylvia returned with a dark smile. "I let myself through the back."

"Past the guards too?"

"Well, I killed your guards, Mr. Mayor. They're all dead." Sylvia returned sternly. She felt his grip on her wrists tighten.

"Were you planning on killing me too?"

"Killing you would have been a disservice."

Oswald looked at her, taken aback by such a silver remark. Breaking the fourth wall, he chuckled and said lightly, "That's actually a _very_ good response, Pigeon."

"Thanks," Sylvia returned, grinning at him. "I thought so too—thought of it on the spot, actually."

She pulled her hands easily out of his grip, noticing that it had slackened. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she breathed into his ear, "I can be useful to you, Mr. Cobblepot. Let me show you, please?"

Oswald felt a part of him burning. Yearning for her. In all honesty, he _did_ want to know how she could prove herself useful. Playful or not, the blood had rushed to his cock as he watched her switch from confident, assured wife to a willful, but submissive, passerby citizen who seemed caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sylvia took his hand and she nearly glided to the bed, watching him intently.

Oswald sat on the edge of the mattress, unable to suppress the smug smile that crept to his face as she slowly knelt down in front of him. Those soulful eyes that always possessed such fire now met his own with such a subservient gaze, Oswald couldn't believe that this same woman who was going to desperately get him off in exchange for her safety, life, and limb was Sylvia.

"No doubt, you missed your calling as an actress, Pigeon," Oswald told her seriously.

His pants, briefs, socks, and shoes had been discarded at the other end of the bed. She knelt down in front of him, Sylvia's familiar impish smile resting assuredly at the corner of her mouth for only a second before her expression switched to that of a modest, vulnerable woman.

"Lie back, Mr. Cobblepot." Sylvia said sweetly.

"Can I be certain that you will behave?" Oswald asked her.

Sylvia caught the dangerous tone in his voice and she nodded quickly, "Yes, sir."

Her hands were placed on his thighs, her hands lightly massaging between them just as her lips parted to take him in. Her mouth swallowing his girth, her quiet moans played off as soft whimpers as she rolled her tongue around his shaft.

Knowing Sylvia wasn't innocent, and by no means so easily subdued as the person she was pretending to be made Oswald's stomach turn in excited tumbles. He hadn't expected to get such a rush from their role-playing, but this one scenario in particular…it caused butterflies to flitter about, his insides were squirming. For a woman who could be sadistic and—even in his opinion—sometimes so fantastically cruel, she was impeccable at playing the victim of circumstance.

Oswald let her know how much he enjoyed her mouth on him, how intoxicated he was with her ministrations; one hand slipping between his legs to massage his balls while her other slid up and down his shaft; her tongue flicking over the head of his cock, teasing but indulging.

In minutes, perspiration dotted his forehead and the rest of him. In this sweltering heat that consumed him, Oswald sat up and pulled the rest of his clothes off or over his head. Sylvia looked up at him from her kneeled position; her eyes gave off a mischievous glint.

"Stand up." Oswald panted.

She did as she was told, so quickly too!

"What do you want, Mr. Cobb— _ah_!"

Before she could finish her sentence, Oswald grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to him; she collided onto the bed; as he shoved his mouth against hers, Oswald hiked up her night slip after untying her robe half-haphazardly. He nearly ripped it off of her just from the heat of the moment. He cupped his palm over the front of her panties, feeling the heat coming off her sex.

"You still have no idea what you do to me," Oswald said huskily, rubbing the heel of his hand against her clit so he could hear her involuntary moans leave her lips.

"Osw—" Sylvia began but his kisses silenced her. Hot, wet kisses that demanded her attention.

Playing pretend was over, she realized, as he rubbed her clit with the heel of his hand, his fingers moving through the panties as the material of them slid up and down the slit of her sex. The same energy that had taken over him was building up inside of her.

Oswald could hear her moans, the sharp inhale of air as he slipped his hand inside her panties and ran his fingers over the swollen nub of her clit. Feeling the wetness, slick between the petals.

"Is that what I do to you?" Oswald said knowingly, smiling sheepishly when Sylvia nodded her head, letting out a small cry when he teased her clit between his fingers, rolling the decadent ball of nerves between them.

"No more," Sylvia whimpered. "Please, baby, please! Don't tease me anymore…"

Oswald silenced her again, feeling her respond to every kiss with a passionate one of her own. Her body responded to every touch, every rub, every stroke, and flick.

His cock had never felt harder in his life as he watched Sylvia struggle to breathe. Slowly, he moved on top of her, between her legs. Her hips lifted to meet him more than halfway, her sex begging to be filled. Granting her relief—and to himself as well—Oswald slowly pushed the head of his cock through her opening. Sylvia wrapped her legs around his waist, encasing him. A part of her legitimately feared that he'd have left her so needy and aching.

"Fuck… _fuck_ ," Sylvia whimpered.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just…please, don't stop," Sylvia pleaded. "Keep going."

Oswald could feel her body stiffening, tensing up. Doing as she begged, Oswald kept going, thrusting inside slowly but so deeply that he heard her finally sigh sharply in relief. It wasn't clear to him if she was crying out of pain or just happy to feel him inside, but until he knew otherwise, Oswald kept his thrusts slow and deep. Her body started moving to his rhythm, and it seemed that the worst part—whatever it was—was over as her sharp intakes and exhalations of pain were taken over by moans of pleasure. Deeply rooted.

"Mmmm…"

Oswald grinned, knowing _that_ was definitely a moan. He moved faster, moving his hand between them so he could rub her clit. As he expected, her moans became heightened keens. Her fingernails dug into his back and shoulders, and when Oswald felt her body tensing and seizing around him, he couldn't help himself.

He grabbed her hips, holding them still, and pumped quickly. In and out. Her wet, hot heat. Driving him insane. The explosion unfurling from the inside out. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, certain that if they hadn't that he might've lost his vision for at least an hour or so.

All his strength seemed to siphon out of him as he collapsed forward. But Sylvia didn't seem to mind. She was in her own drug-induced state, her body covered in sweat, much like his.

She'd caught her breath. Oswald could feel her hand lightly rubbing his back as he began to catch his. In the silence that followed, he could hear her satisfied sigh, the way he felt.

"Well," Sylvia said with a lighthearted snicker. "Without a doubt, that was amazing."

"Undoubtedly." Oswald returned, glancing at her with a smile of his own.

* * *

Author's Note: Phew! I needed a cold shower after writing this hot chapter!

As a personal note: This might be the first and only story I've ever written than involves any OC having a kid. Thoughts? Concerns? Equivocations that can be explained without insults or variations of any kind? I'm interested in what you all think so far :)


	6. The Builder and the Defender

Chapter Six: The Builder and the Defender

* * *

Oswald stood on the steps in front of City Hall where the statue of his mother would be unveiled. While the press conference hadn't officially started, the news reporters had decidedly presented earlier with the anticipation that their new mayor would answer some of their burning questions. Microphones were forced in his direction; men and women alike scribbling his responses on notepads; their audio recorders clicking in their fingers as they bounced it from his direction to theirs as they spoke their piece as well.

Beside him was Ed Nygma, who embraced the press with a small smile of contentment. He stood proudly, hands clasped together in front of him, watching the mayor answer nearly every question the reporters threw at him with absolution and tact.

Standing in the crowd as though he'd been tossed to the wayside was Butch. While he glanced between Oswald and Ed bitterly, his disgruntled expression noticeable from a mile away, his eyes turned towards the sound of a car that parked just behind the reporters. A smile lit his face as well as Ed's and Oswald's when the three of them saw Sylvia walking up the stairs.

Her hair, which had grown to her shoulders in little time, was pulled into a low-hanging braid, cast onto one shoulder. As always, she carried Csilla in one arm; the baby's head turning left and right as she curiously looked all around her, distractedly playing with the tail end of Sylvia's braid. While she wasn't particularly shy, she did careen her head closer to Sylvia's body, seemingly hoping that the outsiders and unfamiliar people gathering around would not take note of her presence.

To no success, though. The moment Sylvia took one step out of her car, the press was wanting to capture a photo of her and Csilla. Taking it upon himself to help out, Butch found himself being useful and walking over to her, able to serve as something of a barrier between Sylvia and the mealy reporters.

"I thought you weren't coming," Butch said, glancing coolly at the media before turning his attention to her.

"I said I would try. The doctor's appointment was pretty quick: no lines."

"Not for the First Lady, at least."

"Don't get snippy with _me_ , Gilzean." Sylvia remarked, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when he realized she was teasing. "I waited my turn like everyone else, at least. There really was no line. It was actually very strange."

"Well," Butch said with a small humorous exhale, "This is Gotham. Everything about this city is strange."

"Including Strange."

"Huh?"

"The doctor…Because his last name is Strange."

"Oh, that's funny."

"Well, I tried," Sylvia said, shrugging shamelessly.

"Tried, but failed."

"Had no idea you were such a humor critic, Butchy."

"You've had better jokes in the past."

"Okay…Well—"

"Seriously, Liv. Get with the program."

Sylvia and Butch exchanged amused expressions before she smiled as she met Oswald on the steps who eagerly embraced her warmly, and kissed her gently on the lips (the cameras flashed). "I tried getting here on time. Did I miss it?"

"No. Perfect timing."

"It's a first for _me_."

"I'd say so. You normally arrive fashionably late."

"Not tardy to the party this time," Sylvia ribbed. She glanced at Butch, asking, "Is that a joke, do you think?"

"No." Butch answered, shaking his head in disappointment but he cracked a grin either way.

"Of course," Sylvia teased her husband, "You know, I'm pretty good at meeting you any other time during any _other_ events or activities."

Oswald cleared his throat uncomfortably, saying, "Not _here_ , Pigeon."

"I couldn't help myself, sweetheart. I love watching you squirm. Here, hold your daughter. My arm is getting tired."

Ignoring her first comment, Oswald readily held his hands out for her so Sylvia shifted Csilla over to him. Csilla giggled when Oswald let out a slightly annoyed scoff as she had managed to untuck his tie from the inside of his vest and started playing with it as she had learned to do in the mansion. Sylvia put her hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding her smile.

Csilla's gross and fine motor skills had been improving; she was able to hold his tie, although not squarely pinpoint the hem; still, that didn't keep her from playfully batting it up and down as she'd done prior to this.

The press was eating it up. Exuding from the crowd were echoes of 'Awwww' and entertained chatter.

Ed stepped in between them, murmuring to Oswald, "Two minutes, Mr. Mayor."

"Right, right. Thank you, Ed." Oswald returned gratefully. He looked at Sylvia, saying, "How was the appointment?"

"She's healthy as a horse."

"Did the doctors find any bugs?" Oswald joked.

"Poke fun all you want, Mister. But no. No bugs. They gave her a vaccine. Also, the doctor noticed the small bruise on her ankle from where she kicked the bars on the crib the other night," Sylvia noted.

Watching Oswald take the baby's hands away from his tie, Sylvia searched through her purse and handed him a rattle; he took it with an uttered thanks, giving it to Csilla, who suddenly became so intrigued by the noise it made, the tie was abandoned.

Oswald touched the baby's ankle, noticing what Sylvia referred to. It wasn't a severe bruise, but it was dark enough to notice that whilst in one of Csilla's angry tantrums, she'd struck the crib a little too hard. It hadn't really hurt her; she hadn't even seemed to notice!

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Sylvia said, smiling when he peered at it with concern. "It's not nearly as bad as it looks."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, if you think it's worse, we can cut it off."

Oswald suddenly looked at her with widened eyes, making a face only after when he saw that Sylvia was actually kidding, because, thank god!

"What are your plans after this?" He asked, shifting Csilla from one arm to the other.

"You ask me every day what my plans are; they're basically centered around this one." Sylvia replied smoothly, poking the baby in her little hip so the she giggled almost hysterically.

"Would you feel comfortable letting Olga watch her tonight? I made dinner reservations," He said, sounding confident nearly halfway until he seemed to almost lose his nerve as he finished his statement.

Sylvia looked at him, taken back.

She wasn't surprised that he'd made dinner reservations already; it was his romantic gesture as usual, and she lived for it. Even after they'd been married for what was now a couple of years, and after they had a baby together, Sylvia still found it miraculous that his domineering and confident streak would slightly fail him when it came to asking her out on dates. There was a shyness in his eyes, the way he always anticipated her answer, or perhaps a part of him dreaded that she'd refuse.

"Sure," Sylvia said, catching a smile. "I'd feel comfortable. I'll get a few things ready: packing diapers, and I'll make the baby's dinner, so Olga won't have to worry about the meticulous things."

"Wonderful," Oswald responded happily.

They exchanged a kiss (cameras flashed again).

Ed leaned in between them again comically, adding, "We're ready now."

"Thank you…" Oswald managed distractedly. He continued to hold Csilla, seeing as he couldn't easily hand her off to Sylvia since Csilla protested; she wanted to be held by her father just a _little_ while longer. Resigned to her wishes, Oswald sighed, "Well, I guess you'll be part of the conference, then."

"Day!…Hehehehe!" Csilla giggled, and she slightly bounced in his arms excitedly.

Sylvia stepped to the side, allowing Oswald to have his own space so he could address the media. The statue was unveiled, the sheet flying off of it in nearly cascading waves as the breeze was slowly picking up speed. The statue of Gertrud Cobblepot held a likeness to her; while it wasn't so detailed to see that it was _her_ , there was a warmth that came from seeing an elderly statue there on the steps of City Hall.

"My mother," Oswald began, "was the daughter of immigrants. A humble cook."

"Bla-Bla-aa…" Csilla babbled. After, she made a gurgling noise and let out a happy squeak.

The crowd gave another echo of 'awww' and quiet laughter.

"We did not have much," Oswald continued, "but when she was by my side, I felt loved. Protected. As promised, I have rid Gotham of its villainous monsters." (The crowd lightly cheered.) "As my mother as my witness, I vow to you from this day forward: Every man, woman, and child of this great city _will be safe_."

Just as he said it, a black truck with dark tinted windows pulled up with a screeching halt. A gang of men with red hoods pulled over their heads arbitrarily burst out of each door, holding shotguns, side arms, and automatic rifles. One was aimed at the sky, and it went off like a cannon; suddenly, everyone except Oswald, Sylvia, and Butch dropped to the floor. Ed bent down to a stoop, surprised; Oswald remained standing, although he kept Csilla closer to him, shielding her.

As the gunmen approached the steps, one spoke through his mask: "No one is safe! Not from us!"

Sylvia reached behind her back, taking out her own handgun from between it and her waistband. She stepped in front of Oswald and Csilla, glaring at the attackers. And Butch stepped in front of _her_. The leader of the gang, as it seemed, said dangerously to Butch, "Drop the gun. Now."

Butch glanced at Oswald uncertainly, but wary of everyone's life being at stake, he did as he was told. With five men aiming their guns at Sylvia, the leader added, "You too."

"Liv…!" Butch whispered. "Do what he says. We're outgunned."

She frowned at him, but still stubbornly glowered at the rifle men.

"You're out _numbered_ , lady." The leader reminded. "You shoot at _us_ , and we got no choice but to shoot you. We don't wanna though, so drop the weapon, _now_. Do it. Or else."

Cynically, Sylvia scoffed and she did as she was ordered to do. Oswald moved towards her just so he could take her arm and pull her back from the heavy weaponry while she continued to glare daggers at the men. Then almost immediately, once the danger had been set to the side, the leader of the gang started spitting fire from his automatic rifle, the bullets cutting through the statue's neck.

In the second it took to do that, another member of the red hooded gang sprung forward with a baseball bat, and struck the back of the head so the statue was decapitated; the head rolled down the stairs like a heavy weight kickball while Ed and Butch grimaced.

"You will _pay_ for this! Dearly!" Oswald threatened angrily.

"Now, now, Mr. Mayor. Don't go losing your head," The leader drawled.

Saying so, he lit up a fuse attached to what was a smoke bomb, casting it forward so it littered the entire staircase and the people around it with blinding smoke.

Amidst the blinding panic, the men in masks jumped into the back of their truck; the tires seared the pavement with black streaks as it started taking off.

The news reporters were whimpering, holding each other, making sure everyone was alright.

Sylvia grabbed her gun from the concrete floor, pulling the trigger back and firing as she sprinted towards the truck. Every round pierced the back of it; to no avail, the truck was gone. Once the gun was empty, Sylvia scowled.

In a split moment of hesitation, Sylvia stumbled up the stairs, losing her balance briefly as she told Oswald quickly, "I'm going after them—take care of Csilla! I'll be right back, _love you_!" She pecked him on the cheek, ran to her car and barely closed her door before the car screeched in the direction where the Red Hoods had vanished.

The statue's head had come to a complete stop, resting on the foundation at the bottom of the staircase.

As Ed straightened to his full height, Butch looked after Sylvia. An uncertainty and concern washed over him almost immediately as she had fled from the conference.

Oswald looked at the statue, holding Csilla who was crying from the loud noises and what was, ultimately, fear.

"This conference is over." He told Ed hastily as he embraced Csilla closer to him; she was crying into his chest. "I have to…" He indicated the baby.

"Yes, right, of course," Ed returned, patting him on the shoulder. "You go on, Oswald. Calm her down; I'll take care of them." He nodded his head to the side indicatively where the reporters were gathering their wits about them, slowly getting back to themselves and ready to inquire about the nature of the attack.

Before they could, Oswald was already in the back of the limo, whispering to Csilla, "It's okay, Turtle dove, shh…" as he gently patted her back and waited for her cries to subside.

* * *

After the interesting morning all of them had, a nap seemed to be one the best choices one could make. Csilla followed that example; once she fell asleep, Oswald had put her to bed. Before he pulled the gate of the crib up and locked it, he leaned over to the mobile hanging above her, and turned it on so that the softest hymn of a lullaby twinkled as a moon, a sun, and a set of foam stars dangled by strings circled above her.

As he stood watching Csilla fall deeper into sleep, he contemplated who might have been behind the Red Hood Gang. Whether the possibilities were that a copy cat had revived its rusty modus operandi, or perhaps what was more likely, the police hadn't discovered a lone gang member prior to its alleged extinction. Regardless of how the gang had come back into existence, he had every intention of eliminating them.

The threat on his life as well as on Sylvia's and on their daughter's would have been reason enough to find and kill them. But they'd gone a step further: they'd laid waste to such a beautiful symbol of compassion and protection by desecrating the memory of his mother. If that didn't warrant a death sentence, Oswald didn't know what could!

His reverie took him from Csilla's bedroom. As he slowly walked down the stairs, making his way to the living room, which had unofficially become a Meeting Room of their own, Oswald heard the front door open. Sylvia strode angrily inside, the door nearly slamming behind her as she dropped her coat and purse on the couch in the living room none too gracefully.

"Oswald!" Sylvia shouted. " _Oswald_?"

"I'm here."

Sylvia suddenly whirled around, surprised to see him so close to her. Her eyes darkened; her anger simmering, boiling beneath her skin.

"I hazard to guess that you were unable to track them down?" Oswald assumed, crossing his arms over his chest as he braced himself for whatever snippy comeback she could readily return.

Sylvia responded in the furious tone he expected: "I lost them in the fucking Narrows. Don't know if they have any sort of headquarters there—fuck, maybe it was just easier to drive down there instead of trying to get on the highways."

As she headed into the kitchen, Oswald followed her. Knowing she had a lot more to vent about.

As he watched her stand on a chair to reach the highest cabinet and retrieve a half bottle of cherry-flavored Vodka, Oswald couldn't care enough to stop her. That rage…that desire she had to destroy everything around her out of emotional impulse…Oswald knew that all too well. So instead of stopping her from filling a pint glass full of vodka and cranberry juice, he opened the freezer and freely offered her a tray so she could ice her drink.

Sylvia glanced at the tray curiously before her expression softened to one of amusement, although her anger was still noticeable in the bright irises of her eyes.

As Oswald leaned his back against the sink, his hands resting on the edge of the counter, he watched her down the entire glass; he noticed the way her hands slightly trembled, the way her chest rose and fell as she inhaled deeply before emitting a sigh of exasperation.

"How is she?" Sylvia managed breathlessly, looking at him.

"She's asleep." Oswald informed. "She calmed down within the hour after you left."

"They wouldn't have taken the highways anyway," Sylvia said resentfully, looking at him as she pushed her glass away from her. "They're stupid for having interrupted the conference—fucking _morons—_ but they were smart enough not to get on the major roads, the GCPD would be on their tail. When I find out where they are, I'm going to make shish kabobs out of their bodies."

"You want to hunt them down yourself?" Oswald asked calmly.

Sylvia sent him a riled look: "I'll _decapitate_ them myself."

"I admire your passion, Pet. 'Eye for an eye' is something that I believe in."

"If you admire my passion, why do you sound like it's not something you want me to do."

"I don't know, Pigeon. I figured you'd rather stay home with Csilla after what happened this morning."

"You'd rather send everyone _else_ out? Tommy Bones, Victor, the Duke…?"

"It would be in her best interest if I did. As well as yours."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, muttering, "Csilla is safe in this _mansion_. We have guards at every door." She added contemptuously, "No one is coming after her tonight, especially after what happened at the conference."

"Regardless, I still prefer that you stayed here."

"If Tommy Bones goes after these morons, these assholes won't get the message."

"And if you pursue them, they will?"

Sylvia gave him a look: "When _Tommy_ tortures people, it lulls them to sleep. At least when you or I do it, it's actually worth our time."

"That's flattering."

"And it's also true."

"Mmm."

Sylvia poured another glass of vodka and cranberry juice. Rather than swallowing it like liquid fire as she'd done with the first one, she sipped from the rim a few times, her eyes burning a hole through the table.

Oswald stepped forward from the sink and placed his hands on the back of a chair, adjacent to her own as she roughly sat down with a 'thud'; the chair nearly scooted due to her forced mannerisms. Contemplatively, he stated, "You stepped in front of Csilla and me."

Sylvia blinked: "Huh?"

"When the Red Hoods came."

"Well, yeah."

"Did it ever occur to you that they would shoot you?"

"It occurred to me, yeah."

"And?"

"And what?"

Oswald cleared his throat quietly, and sat beside her. His hand gingerly rested on her thigh, pulling her attention from the glass to him.

"Sylvia…You are not just a body guard anymore," He told her. "You're Gotham's First Lady, and a mother."

"Just because I had a kid and just because you became mayor doesn't change my role any more than it has changed my sleeping habits," Sylvia reminded sardonically.

"What is it that you always said to me? That I was your lover first, and your boss, second?"

"So you _did_ listen."

"I did, and I want you to listen to _me_ now." Oswald said sternly. "I'm not telling you this as your boss, but as someone who loves and cares for you. You need to stay here, with Csilla. We have men who can find these attackers with no expense to your safety, or hers."

"I hear what you're saying."

"Do you?"

"I _do_. And here's my response: **No**."

"'No'?" Oswald repeated.

Sylvia stood, her hands bracing on the table as she leaned forward.

"I'm not _just_ your wife, _just_ Csilla's mother, or _just_ the First Lady of Gotham. I am its Queen and I've worked too hard to get where I am just so I can stand by and watch people threaten my family! It's why I learned self-defense from Mr. Bell; why I went to all those contracts and trips with Zsasz. I'm not going to be a weakness, or some live bait that people can dangle in front of you for leverage whenever it suits them.

"I am a motherfucking weapon, and a motherfucking storm. The next time someone aims a fucking gun at my goddamn daughter, I swear to _god_ I will rip their heads off their fucking shoulders, skin their faces off and wear it as a mask to their fucking funerals, _because I am not—_!"

Oswald had stood, and he shut her up by kissing her. At first, she was surprised, but the moment his lips met hers, her anger seemed to stutter then dissolve. He caressed her face between his palms, his thumbs softly stroking her jaw line. When the kiss broke, she still looked taken aback, but pleasantly surprised.

"What was that for?" Sylvia asked quietly, smiling at him.

"You told me to kiss you," Oswald reminded, "the next time you flew off the handle."

"I did?"

"Yes. Remember? 'Calm my storm'."

Sylvia beamed, saying, "Oh, I did say that, didn't I? Well…um, th-thank you…okay…" She rubbed the back of her head embarrassingly, adding, "Well…um…so, I'm going to just check on Csilla…"

He watched her leave the kitchen at first, but she stopped in place. Curiously, Oswald watched Sylvia turn and walk back over to him to kiss him back, smiling when he reciprocated it.

"I was wrong," Oswald uttered.

"Wrong? What do you mean?"

"Before, I told you that I was the builder, and you were my destroyer," He said. "You're more of a defender than anything."

Sylvia chuckled, "Well, you _did_ tell me once that you couldn't ever decide if I was more like your mother, your girlfriend, or an angry guard dog, so I think that follows. And honestly, being a defender is more of a Gordon tradition."

Oswald said amusedly, "Why do you say that?"

"Because at one point, it was our motto." She returned. "Dad always wore a ring. It had Latin inscription on it. ' _U_ _m_ _S_ _piramus_ _T_ _uebimur_ ': 'While we breathe, we shall defend'. Dad, Jim, Me—one in the same."

"Good to know."

"Mm-hm! Now, I _am_ going to check on Csilla."

"I'm still calling a conference," Oswald reminded lightly, "to gather our men so we can find the Red Hood gang."

Sylvia frowned, saying, "I told you I'm not going to sit at home and read a book after what happened."

"I know you won't stay home, and it would be a waste of my time and energy to try and keep you, but I do plan on using my resources. Is that a fair compromise?"

"Fair enough. When is your meeting taking place?"

"Tonight."

"Dinner reservations are a no-go, I'm guessing?"

Oswald blinked and gasped, "I completely forgot about—"

"Don't worry, babe. I cancelled them already," Sylvia said, smirking at him. He looked at her in relief. She leaned forward, licking his cheek affectionately, and then headed up the stairs to Csilla's bedroom, saying, "We'll just dine in tonight!"


	7. A Gathering of Killers

Chapter Seven: A Gathering of Killers

* * *

Every bruiser, contracted assassin (professional or not), and/or bouncer was present at the following meeting that took place at the Van Dahl Mansion, now dubbed the Cobblepot Mansion. It was basically a B.Y.O.B occasion, but that wasn't to say that Sylvia retracted her intentions of being a swell hostess; an array of booze was offered to all the applicable constituents to include Tommy Bones, Victor Zsasz, The Duke, Dagger, Chilly, and Gabe.

Sylvia's entertainers, Salt, Pepper, Joel, and Jack had joined the table. Salt and Pepper, an interracial duo, and the twins, Jack and Joel, had originally signed up to be dancers. So naturally, seeing them enter the Meeting Room made Sylvia laugh amusedly as they turned towards her, curious.

"What the hell are you four doing here?" She asked, her hands moving to her hips as she glanced between them.

"Well, we're not cut out for dancing, obviously," Pepper stated, gesturing to the other three. "So we thought we'd try and take our skill set elsewhere."

"Really?" Sylvia said skeptically, crossing her arms pointedly. "Have any of you killed anyone before?"

They shook their heads.

"Any of you mug anyone?"

Negative, again.

"Ever punch a guy?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

Jack slowly raised his hand. Ultimately, Sylvia let out a deep sigh of disappointment saying, "Please tell me this is some practical joke in order to get back at me for saying you all suck."

"Hate to let you down—"

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time," Sylvia said, interrupting Salt. "If you want to sit in on the meeting, by all means. Don't let me stop you, but I don't think you four are cut out for the kill-and-maim business."

"How can you tell if we haven't done anything yet?" asked Pepper.

"Like I said," Sylvia continued as if Pepper hadn't said anything. "Join the meeting. Who knows. Maybe your all's two left feet will be better at dismantling the foundation of people's lives rather than following a simple four-count cadence."

The four glanced at each other warily but Sylvia was already moving on. She greeted Gabe, who grinned and instead of shaking her hand, he offered her a bear hug. Seeing Victor across the room, Sylvia excused herself and met him at the doorway.

"Surprised to see you here," Victor joked.

"Pot, kettle, black," returned Sylvia with a smile. They hugged briefly with Victor's arms wrapping around her middle and Sylvia's around his shoulders. However brief the hug had been, it earned a few curious glances from Tommy Bones, and everyone else.

"How've you been, work hubby?" Sylvia teased.

"A lot better than you, apparently. You look like you've not slept in days."

"Wonderful. It's always good to know I look terrible and that I can always count on you to tell me that."

"How's the kid?"

"She's almost seven months," Sylvia answered, and she shook her head, smiling: "She's spoiled."

"Like mother, like daughter," Victor returned, grinning widely. "Will she be at the meeting?"

"She's _sleeping_. And she's a baby."

"Baby's gonna have to learn how everything works. She'll be taking over before you know it."

"You're not the first person to tell me that," Sylvia stated, crossing her arms. "I'm not sure if I like the idea of Csilla seeing… _all of this_ " (She gestured to all of the contracted killers in the room.) "I'm starting to understand why Dad was the way he was."

"He didn't let you see any of the good stuff?" Victor asked and he thanked her silently as she handed him a beer.

"Dad never brought it home to Mom, Jim _or_ me." Sylvia answered pointedly. "Granted, I didn't need to be told what kind of world we lived in. I lived in it every day when I was about eight or nine-stole some girl scout cookies, simple stuff. Didn't really get into the thick of things until I was about fifteen. That's when things got _real_. "

"You chose to live in it."

"Yes, I did. No argument there. Mom noticed, didn't seem to mind. Dad noticed, but didn't seem to care."

"Actually, I have a question for you," Victor said curiously. "Something I've been thinking about for a while."

"What?"

"You said your mom left when you were young…"

"Mm-hmm."

"So when Jim came back from the war as a soldier, was your mom still in the picture or…?"

"No," Sylvia said coolly. "She was out of our lives when i was nine. When Jim came back. Even before then, s he didn't stay home for too long. First, she was gone a few days. Then after, a few months. One day, she left and she never came back. Dad died sometime after Jim had just come back from the war, graduated the police academy."

"So, I'm guessing with all this baggage you have in your family, you're going to try to do things differently."

"Something like that."

"You and Penguin are neck-deep in crime."

" _Eyes_ deep," Sylvia corrected. "But I don't think that's what we want for Csilla."

"I don't think you'll have a choice."

"Meaning?"

"She's going to grow up knowing her parents are criminals. Having Penguin for a father, and Lark for a mom?" Victor said coolly. He popped the cap of his beer, and took a brief drink, adding, "Maybe she'll start loving the family trade."

"Or she'll despise it with every fiber of her being," Sylvia said, thinking of what used to be her father's career. "All _I_ ever heard about were legalities, the criminal justice system, and morals. Maybe that's why I went the opposite direction."

Victor wrapped his arm around Sylvia's shoulder, saying, "Parenthood. It's not easy."

"You don't even have a kid."

"Not one that I know about, at least."

"So how do you even get to say something like that."

Victor drank the rest of his beer and said with a cool tone, "You know, I don't care for kids. Not a lot of them. But I like yours. She's cute. So are you."

"I'm not a kid."

"No, but you _are_ cute."

"Stop flirting. Oswald's literally right there," Sylvia said with a light smile, pointing to Oswald, who stood at the opposite end of the room, talking to Ed; they spoke in low voices. Likely, Oswald was telling his newly elected Chief of Staff about what else he wanted to do regarding the Red Hoods, and how he would be acting on his behalf when Ed went to the GCPD.

Victor said pointedly, "Penguin may be your husband, but I'm your contract buddy. Speaking of which"—He tucked his hand inside the innermost section of his jacket and pulled out a neatly rolled up sheet of paper and handed it to her—"Here's my next trip. I figure since you're no longer pregnant, and these Red Hoods have pissed you off, you might want to take a sabbatical with me."

"What kind of sabbatical?"

"The 'shovel in the trunk' kind. What else would I be talking about?"

Sylvia took the paper and unrolled it: "Who the fuck is Dolores Reese?"

Victor sighed, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed with a smile on his face. Too delighted to be a coincidence. Shallowly, he said, "Remember back when Penguin was still trying to collect all those debts from people who owed Falcone?"

"Yeah, Ogden Barker, Gregor—"

"Yep, and this is one more." Victor interrupted her, pointing to the paper in her hand. "Dolores Reese owed Falcone a favor."

"You can't cash favors."

"No, but you can collect them."

"How do you do that?"

"The way we always collect," Victor said, smirking. "She also sold some dairy farm—"

"I recall that she owned a cattle ranch—"

"— _Whatever_ ," Victor scoffed. "She sold it. Whatever she got from the place, she still owes Falcone. So therefore…"

"She still owes Penguin," Sylvia said, catching on. She glanced at the paper, adding, "You've been saving this one just for me, haven't you, Victor?"

"Well…" Victor said grinning with a modest shrug. "I'd like to think I still owe you a wedding present since I took care of Gregor."

"Yeah, even though you promised I could kill him."

"I tried taking him in alive, remember?"

"You shot him in the knees and then put a bullet in his head."

"Well, after he told you to go fuck your brother and called you a 'whore', my hands were pretty much tied at the point."

"I know, and I still appreciate it." Sylvia reassured, grinning.

Victor nudged her arm with his elbow playfully, saying, "So what do you say? How about I make it up to you. After this."

"Dolores Reese is a woman. It won't be the same."

"Killing a woman and killing a man are pretty much the same cup of tea."

"Different flavors, Victor. Different."

"So you don't want to go after her?"

"What has she done that would warrant a death?" Sylvia asked lightly.

Victor stared at her: "You've really changed a _lot_ when you took over for Penguin after he went to Arkham."

"It's called 'personal growth'." Sylvia muttered unhappily. "And I had no choice _but_ to change. If I had been as impulsive and destructive as I was back when I was working for Oswald while he'd been under Maroni, we would've never gotten this far."

"Reese got a lot of money from that cattle ranch, Liv."

"How much? A few hundred dollars? Cattle ranches aren't exactly high sale around Gotham."

"Ten thousand."

Sylvia whirled around: " _What?"_

"She sold the ranch, land and cattle." Victor informed casually, shrugging just as nonchalantly. "Right now, she's living outside of Gotham, camping out in a two-story house. No guards."

"How much did she owe Falcone?"

"Ten thousand."

"Why did she owe that much?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Victor said with a delightful crooked grin. "Back when Falcone was more of a loan shark than a Don" (he rolled his eyes at the past) "she went to him for protection against a few gangsters."

"What gangsters?"

"They're not alive anymore. What does it matter?"

"So Falcone killed them."

"Had them killed, yes."

"Why did she ask for so much money?" Sylvia inquired.

"She used the money to buy the cattle ranch from her husband." Victor answered. "Husband owed a lot of debt to the gangsters; they came after him, killed him, and figured since she had the ranch, she owed _them_. Falcone had the gangsters killed to keep her safe. Since Reese bought the land with Falcone's money, it belongs to him."

"So what the fuck is the favor for?"

Victor shrugged, saying, "That, I don't know, Liv. Maybe it was interest."

"I'd have asked for more money instead of a favor."

"Don Falcone likes favors instead of money exchange."

"Can't imagine how he would've collected on that favor."

"I'm sure it would have come in time if he stayed in the game," Victor sighed, shaking his head disappointedly. "Still bums me out that he got out of the game before he was finished playing."

"Wow, I never knew you cared so much for the old man." Sylvia said with a smile. "You love him, don't you?"

"I have the same amount of respect for him as I have for you, Kiddo."

"Hearing that come from you, color me flattered." Sylvia returned lovingly. She stood on her tippy toes and kissed Victor's cheek, adding, "I'd accuse you of being sentimental but I'm afraid you'd respond with an admission of guilt so I won't."

She and Victor watched the last of the contracted assassins enter.

"So are you game for tomorrow night?" Victor asked, looking at her expectantly.

"Oswald's taking me out to dinner tomorrow," Sylvia said apologetically. "He made reservations for tonight but…" She gestured to the killing party, finishing her sentence.

Victor sighed, saying, "So, I'll save her for the weekend."

"I appreciate that."

"Anything for you, kiddo." Victor said although he seemed a bit disappointed in having to wait longer. He kissed her forehead briefly before he decided to figure out just who Salt and Pepper were all about.

Coming into the room was a familiar face, one that Sylvia recognized on sight. It was Barbara Kean, who was dressed in a black and glittery yellow cocktail dress, looking more fabulous than ever. As she greeted Sylvia, Barbara kissed both of her cheeks, and said with a delightful smile, "Hey, Girlfriend."

There was a mutual appreciation for one another, one that Oswald detected even across the room. Sylvia and Barbara spoke in casual airs.

"You look beautiful," Sylvia greeted, smiling at her.

"Oh, thank you. You look terrible."

"Lovely seeing you again. Pleasure as always."

Barbara cracked a grin, saying, "I'm just being honest, baby. You look tired. Getting much sleep?"

"What's sleep?" Sylvia returned, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

"I heard you tried to shoot the Red Hood Gang's heads off," Barbara giggled. "How'd that work out for you?"

"Not well, as you can see."

"I liked how quick you were to get back at them. Can't say the same for the newspapers."

"What are you talking about?"

"Haven't seen it yet, huh. Well, doesn't surprise me. Here," Barbara said casually, handing her a newspaper that she'd carried in her purse, specifically for this occasion. "Read the headline."

Sylvia gazed at it and said ironically, "'First Lady Shoots First'?"

"It's a lame title, I know."

"The people shot at us first," Sylvia said flippantly.

"Well, it's the 'Gotham Gazette'," Barbara scoffed. "I wouldn't take what they write seriously. Take it with a grain of salt. Like me! At least your reputation isn't on the line anymore. Nothing is as bad as what they wrote about you during the campaign: 'Sylvia Cobblepot: Proclaimer of Ugly Truths'."

Sylvia tossed the paper to the wayside saying coolly, "Well, at least I kept my reputation of being honest."

"Brutally honest."

"But _honest._ Even someone like you can appreciate that."

"I do appreciate it." Barbara agreed. She leaned forward, her hand reaching out to touch Sylvia's face. Her palm caressed her cheek, and she said softly, "I haven't forgotten that kiss, you know. The one we shared at the club…You made Tabitha jealous."

"Good to know." Sylvia responded smugly.

"I have to admit: I've kinda hoped it would happen again. Hoping that maybe you weren't just trying to get a rise out of her…"

"Honestly, I make it my mission to piss her off any chance I get," Sylvia admitted sheepishly.

"Well, congratulations, Kitten. You made her mad. She wouldn't look at me for the rest of the day," Barbara said grumpily. "Took me hours convincing her that we never slept together."

"I can see why she'd think that."

"Why? Because we kissed."

"Because you call me 'Girlfriend', 'babe', 'baby', and you have an unnatural conviction to make me like you more and more each time we meet," Sylvia answered smoothly.

"Well, I've told you before that I've liked you."

"And you're hoping that what will come from it exactly?"

"I don't know." Barbara said airily. "An alliance, perhaps? We have a lot in common, you know: A past with Jim—"

"—He's my brother—"

"—We embrace our darkness—"

"—I roll around in it like a happy mutt in the mud," Sylvia agreed.

"And," Barbara added seductively, "I think _you_ like me too."

"This isn't high school, Babs. Just say what you want to say."

Barbara smiled, kissed Sylvia on the lips, and uttered against them, "I wouldn't say 'no' if you wanted to try a little… _experimenting_."

"I'm married, B."

"No one said he couldn't watch," Barbara whispered.

Sylvia took Barbara by the arms and pushed her away gently but firmly. Despite her rejection, Barbara's expression seemed all too satisfied. By the way Sylvia's face had tinted to a soft shade of light pink and how she licked her lips nervously, those were the exact reactions Barbara seemed too keen on extracting from her.

"I'm going to make myself a drink," Barbara said coyly. "Want anything, babe?"

"No." Sylvia said, shaking her head. She watched her move past her towards the other end of the room, and Sylvia brought her hands to her face, rubbing it for a long moment.

Oswald seemed to sense the dysfunction. He appeared at her side when Sylvia lowered her hands and she startled, seeing him.

"Are you all right, Pigeon?" He asked, concerned.

"Yeah… _yes_. I'm fine."

"You seem bothered."

"I'm fine." Sylvia repeated, smiling with an attempt of calm. "Just a little bothered, I suppose."

"Yes, I could see that from all the way over there." Oswald stated, gesturing to the room.

"Barbara kissed me again," Sylvia uttered, putting her fingers on her lips. She looked at Oswald, adding, "She um…she's attracted to me."

"I figured that much," Oswald returned, glaring at Barbara, who seemed lacking in interest in a conversation she was having with an ogle-eyed Tommy Bones. He reverted his gaze back to Sylvia, asking, "How are you feeling?"

"To be honest, I'm feeling exposed." Sylvia answered, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Are you attracted to her?"

"That's still to be determined," She admitted.

She glanced at Barbara uncertainly then closed the distance between her and Oswald, who looked at her with annoyance, and simultaneously, concern. When her arms wrapped around his neck, he peered at her, more confused than anything.

"I think her affection she still has for Jim is spilling over to me because I'm related to him," Sylvia said with a tilt of her head.

"So I needn't worry." Oswald assumed.

"Worry, you should not." She whispered, kissing his cheek, then her lips trailed to his mouth where he reciprocated her kiss. "I love you, baby."

"As I love you," Oswald returned almost immediately. He added with a possessive edge to his tone: "More than anyone else in this room possibly could."

"Be careful, Ozzie. Your jealousy is showing."

"Well, if _you_ saw me kiss Miss Kean, I'm sure yours would be showing as well."

"Touche, hun."

* * *

Sitting around the table were Tommy Bones, who sat directly in front of Oswald on his left hand side, a stocky fellow; Dagger, a man that knew a thing or two about breaking down doors, and one of Sylvia's more seasoned men; Chilly, a bouncer who had been up to his eyes in debt having gambled one too many times and had been saved by Sylvia, to whom he owed his life and debt; Salt, Pepper, Jack, and Joel, who were gathered together at one end of the table. Sitting in between them was Barbara Kean, who held a clear beverage in her hand.

Oswald stood at the other end with the head of the fallen statue resting on the surface of the table; Sylvia and Victor sat opposite of each other with Sylvia sitting between an assassin she didn't know and Tommy Bones. Butch Gilzean stood nearest to the wall, acting more like a wall flower than someone who had been invited to be part of the party.

In the silence of the room, Oswald spoke: "'Anything for you, my little Cobble Pot. You can count on me.' Those were the words my mother used to whisper to me every night before I fell asleep."

"She was a saint," Butch uttered.

Sylvia said coolly, " _Wasn't_ she."

Oswald glanced between the two of them and continued: "Yes. A saint whose only desire was to love me. And what was her thanks? Not only did she take a knife in the back" (Oswald pointedly looked over his shoulder at Butch, who looked anywhere but at him) "but even in her death, her memory is being desecrated."

"Seriously?"

Both Oswald and Sylvia glared at Tommy Bones, who'd uttered the sarcastic remark. Their glares didn't defer him any as he asked cynically, "This is the reason we're here? A little glue. Some paint." He stood, and leaned over the table, noting the damage of the statue's head, adding, "Mama will be good as new, eh?"

Oswald grabbed the back of Tommy's head and slammed it hard against the statue's face, and Tommy grunted, immediately flailing back in his chair and holding his nose where blood had started to trickle down. From across the table, Barbara let out a giggle while Sylvia smiled smugly.

"No!" Oswald snapped. "That is not why you are here!"

"Maybe you'll learn to shut your mouth, Tommy." Sylvia sneered. "It just gets you into trouble."

"Shut the fuck up, Lark," Tommy retorted, holding his face. "Don't you have a baby to feed or something."

Sylvia leaned back in her chair, peacefully crossing one leg over the other. Tommy thought he might've won some argument, but Butch, Gabe, Victor, Dagger, Chilly, and Oswald were sending him icy stares. With as many stony expressions as there were in the room, he took Sylvia's warning to heart and remained silent, choosing self-preservation over the last word any day.

"The Red Hoods have challenged my authority," Oswald informed. "They will be made examples of." Victor grinned happily. "Tonight, I am celebrating my historic victory—"

"—At the Sirens," Barbara chimed in, standing and attracting attention to herself. "It's going to be fabulous. None of you are invited. Except you, Liv. You're always welcome."

Sylvia smiled politely, then looked at Oswald, waiting for him to continue. And he did: "I want them found, and their leader's head brought to me on a spike by nightfall."

There was silence that greeted him. Impatiently, Oswald snapped, " _What are you waiting for?_ Find them!"

Immediately, everyone but Sylvia hopped to their feet and exited the room. Before doing so, Victor leaned over her shoulder and said merrily, "Nice seeing you again, Kid. So this weekend?"

"Weekend. Got it." Sylvia promised. She asked offhandedly, "I saw you talking to Salt and Pepper. Should I be worried or…?"

"Just trying to network," He said. "But you're right; those four aren't cut out for this business."

"No kidding. I'll see you this weekend."

"Cool…Bye, boss!" Victor said, smiling at Oswald, then he turned to leave.

And then it was only Butch in the room with them.

"Butch," Sylvia uttered softly.

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind stepping out for a bit?" She asked politely as she watched Oswald seethe.

"Sure thing. I'll just go and check on something."

"Thank you."

"No problem." He answered, swiftly smiling before he, too, left the room. Once the door was closed, Sylvia stood and took a few steps over to Oswald, who looked at her irritably.

"Take a seat." She told him.

"I'm not in the mood for any of your pep talks."

"No pep talk. I promise."

"Fine, then." Oswald muttered, annoyed. He sat down with a huff, glaring at the statue's head. "I have morons working for me."

"Mm-hmm…" Sylvia agreed. She stood behind him.

Sensing her presence so close to him, Oswald turned his head and looked up at her: "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry about it, Sweetheart."

He turned back, burning a hole through the table as he spoke of his frustration: "Everything has to be played out for them to understand anything. Must I exert myself needlessly to tell them how to do their job?"

He felt her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers were almost feather-like, how they crept slowly to his neck and relaxed his collar. Slowly, her hands loosened his tie. Oswald felt her move closer to him; he could smell her lavender perfume, the scent of it alone…Her head moved beside his, her lips pressed ever so softly along the underside of his jaw, and then fell back to his ear where she hummed a song. He didn't recognize the song but that didn't take away from the fact that her voice was soothing.

A vibrato so subtle yet noticeable. A belle in the forest, calling out to the hunters who became magnetized to its decadent charm and pacifying existence. Hypnotic, and enchanted.

"What are you doing?" Oswald asked, opening his eyes; he hadn't realized they'd closed in the first place!

"You have a storm of your own, lover," Sylvia murmured. "If you don't calm down, you'll catch yourself in the eye of a tornado."

"You see what I'm working with," he retorted. "The idiots that—"

" _Simmer_."

Oswald looked at her pointedly, saying, "Perhaps you were right. Sending you to deal with the Red Hoods might be dangerous, but I can always depend on you to get the job done. And without having to explain every little thing to you."

"I can put their heads on a spike, if you'd really like that. Might have to put newspapers on the floor; the blood'll be all over the place.."

"Newspapers won't help with that much blood."

"So, towels then."

Oswald sighed, half in exasperation while the other half was in amusement. He laid his head back against the chair. He smiled in spite of himself when he felt her fingers line themselves along his throat as her thumbs massaged the sides of his neck. It was a place he didn't think he'd have much tension but feeling the pressure against that carotid artery was alleviating whatever tension he was feeling.

"What was Victor talking about when he mentioned this weekend?" Oswald asked curiously. His eyes remained closed, but he listened.

"Debt collection."

"I'm sorry?" Oswald returned, looking at her in confusion.

"Dolores Reese," Sylvia explained. "She has a debt to Carmine Falcone. You took over, and she now owes a debt to you. A debt she couldn't pay back a year ago but she recently sold her cattle ranch for ten thousand dollars, the exact amount she owed Falcone and the amount she, now, owes _you_. Victor was going to pay her a visit but he owed me back from when we went after Gregor."

"The sex shop manager," Oswald recalled, frowning.

"So you remember him," Sylvia said, smiling. "Good to know."

"I can't forget a man whose tastes were lesser than rustic."

"No refinery to that one."

"More deplorable than anything."

"Exactly so," Sylvia agreed. She walked around the chair and sat on the edge of the table directly in front of Oswald, who smiled at how quickly she decided to close the distance between them. "Dolores Reese has been hiding."

"Hiding where?" He asked, tilting his head to the side. "And why?"

"Well, she's sitting on a ten thousand dollar payout and she knows she still owes a debt."

"Perhaps she's forgotten."

Sylvia snickered, "I love your sense of humor. But this woman wouldn't forget such a debt."

"And you've remembered her this entire time?"

"Victor had to jog my memory."

"So she's forgettable, but obtainable." Oswald said, cracking a grin.

"So is that debt of hers."

"And you and Victor…"

"We're going to visit her this weekend," Sylvia informed. "She lives outside of Gotham. Victor says she's in some town house, no guards around her."

"You're right then. It sounds like she's trying to hide."

"Well, she did a half-ass job doing it. Can't have tried hard if Victor found her hiding spot."

"I wouldn't be so cross, Pigeon. Victor's a professional."

"At least make an effort, you know." Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "If _I_ had ten thousand dollars and I wanted to make sure no one got a piece of it, I'd be doing a little more than hiding in a house with no guards. If you're going to hide from someone, it'd be best not to stay in the same goddamn city where you owe your debt. Granted, I'm not complaining—makes _my_ job easier since I won't have to cross the country to dump her body in a dirty river. I can toss her off the pier, instead."

Oswald leaned forward, his hands rested on her hips and he pulled her to him. Sylvia grinned and sat in his lap, her legs on either side of his seat. Her dress hiked up to the middle of her thighs.

"Should I bring her in dead or alive?" Sylvia asked as she crossed her arms around his neck. "Do you have a preference?"

"If I did, would you abide by it?"

"If you wanted her dead, I might."

"And if I didn't?"

"I can't make any promises," Sylvia said honestly. "Personally, I've not had any fun since we found out that I was having Csilla, and I'm getting a little restless over here." At Oswald's disarmed expression, she added, "I mean fun that didn't involve you and me under the sheets."

"You're insatiable." Oswald told her.

"I'm actually easily satisfied. You should know that by now."

"Oh, don't I," He agreed with a sly little smile.

"It's still early," She noted. "Did you still want to try and make those dinner reservations?"

"I thought you said you cancelled them."

"Oh, I did, but for you, Mr. Mayor, they'll hold a table last minute."

"The job comes with a few perks, doesn't it."

"I don't mind the political profession, but I still like your real job better." Sylvia stated, and she kissed him briefly before adding, "For the Mayor, they'll be tolerant. For the Penguin, they'll be fearful, but respectful."

"And for my little Lark?" Oswald asked.

"They'll be damn grateful I don't stab them in the eye with a fork," She replied, "when they're not."


	8. A Friendship Like This One

**Chapter Eight** : A Friendship Like This One

* * *

 **Author's Note:** To the Guest who wrote the first review, thank you very much for your feedback. I was very flattered. Here's Chapter Eight! Hope everyone enjoys!

* * *

In the hours that followed, the Red Hood Gang had continued to challenge Oswald's authority. They had attacked a school bus where they blew it up along with a priest that had been inside. The police had scavenged what remnants were left of the Father; the survivors in his family couldn't identify them to save their lives.

"They said it was because of him," Sylvia said flippantly as she turned off the television in the living room.

Ed, who had been leaned over the back of the couch, braced by his hands, watching the news, glanced down as she pointed to the television, indicating the news reporters.

"The Red Hoods are going around, telling their victims that everything they're doing is because of Oswald," Sylvia continued, rolling her eyes.

"Well, the people love him," Ed offered with a brief smile. "He's only just been elected. No amount of mudslinging could slander his good name."

"Unless it keeps happening."

"Pardon?"

"You and I know he's trying to find this gang," Sylvia explained as she crossed her arms, leaning her hip against an armchair. "But the people don't see that."

"I've been running point with the GCPD," Ed reminded. "I'm fairly certain people will see that our mayor is working to rid the gang of their petulant existence."

"You have _more_ faith in Gotham's people than me, then."

"Liv…"

" _What_?"

"Take a breath." Ed offered.

"I'm breathing just fine."

"You're seething."

"But still breathing."

Ed curved around the couch and offered his hand. She looked at it cautiously but after throwing all fucks to the wind, Sylvia took it and he walked her to the kitchen where he promptly pulled out a chair: a polite nonverbal request for her to take a seat. So, she did.

She fidgeted with her fingers, the thumb of her left hand twisting her wedding band in circles. Ed moved around the kitchen, making a pot of tea. For the moment, there was only silence between them, but it was soon assuaged once Ed placed a full cup in front of Sylvia, who minded it for only a minute as she observed him as he sat in front of her, drinking from his own cup.

"I'd have preferred coffee." She noted humorously.

"Coffee makes you tense. Tea is relaxing."

"Perhaps I _choose_ to be tense."

"I have no doubt that you do, but it wouldn't help you any." Ed said, smirking from behind his cup. "Anyway, if I wanted you to be more relaxed, I'd have offered to go to the gas station in the city, buy a bottle of vodka and a gallon of cranberry juice."

"Oh really. That'd make me more relaxed?"

"It's your favorite combination, isn't it? Vodka and cranberry juice."

"Ed…"

"You can't lie. I know it is." Ed said playfully. After, he sipped from his tea then placed it on the table, looking at her.

"So, it is." Sylvia admitted, cracking a grin of her own.

"But I can't imagine you'd want to be _that_ relaxed around me."

"No, you're right about that. I wouldn't."

Following her saying so was an awkward pause. One that Ed cleared his throat uncomfortably at and Sylvia smiled nervously; distractedly, she picked up her cup of tea, so she could stop fidgeting with her hands and drank from it. If anything, just to rid the room of this silence.

"I hear you're going on a sabbatical with Victor Zsasz." Ed said conversationally.

Sylvia breathed a sigh of relief, quickly nodding: "Oh, yes. Yeah, I am."

"Do you all do that often?"

"Take sabbaticals?"

"Generally speaking."

Sylvia shrugged saying, "It's a way to pass the time."

"I hear you've become something of a student for Zsasz," Ed said, intrigued. Inwardly, he was relieved that the pleasant conversation aura was back and the awkward silence that had intruded was nearly gone.

"To be honest, I was always a fair shot." Sylvia explained, smiling proudly. "But Victor knows a few firing tricks. He's an athlete, that one. Doesn't know lick about first aid—perhaps it's best since that makes him pretty wary of getting shot."

"I suppose it would."

"Yep…"

Damn…that awkward silence was back. Sylvia said uncomfortably, "This tea isn't really helping."

"Perhaps it's not the tea."

She agreed, "Perhaps it isn't."

Ed sighed in defeat, lowering his cup and looking at her with a mixed expression of hope and dread. Quietly, he said, "I know why."

"I do too." Sylvia returned. She drank the rest of her tea, saying, "Ed…"

"Yes?"

"You still have feelings for me, don't you?"

"Why ask the question when you already know the answer."

"It can't be possible that you just love me as a friend and that the things that were happening to you—what with Kristen Kringle, Dougherty—that maybe you just became infatuated with me _because_ of it all?"

Ed replied with an air of amusement, but also with affection, "You were the first person to see me as I truly was…before I ever became him. And it's been a while since then. My feelings for you, Liv, have not changed. I don't want to bring anymore awkwardness to the table, but I think you still care for me too."

"We shouldn't be talking about this."

"And yet, here we are."

Sylvia inhaled deeply before she sighed, "Yep. Here we are."

Another awkward silence.

Ed stood, saying, "I'm going to get another cup of tea. Do you want any?"

"Sure, why not."

He took her cup with one hand and walked to the counter where he refilled both of their cups. The sound of the tea splashing into the bottom of the China was more unsettling as it seemed to be the only sound in the room what with Csilla sleeping in her bedroom and with Oswald attending yet another press conference as Mayor. Ed took his seat in front of her once more; the eerie, awkward sound of the chair scooting forward was all too noticeable in the quiet mansion.

"Why is it awkward between us?" Sylvia asked. "We never had this problem before."

"Before," Ed reminded, "I was still in love with Kristen, and you were…Well, you've always loved Oswald. And then there's that thing with Gordon. I suppose after that escapade, we've never had the time to actually sit in a room alone together."

"Never had a chance to…"

"Well, I was a patient in Arkham."

"For good reason."

"I suppose Gordon hasn't forgiven me for that stunt."

"I wouldn't think so; you framed him."

"Rightly so."

"Framing one's brother can certainly make things awkward between two people."

"You forgave me for that, remember?"

Sylvia said coolly, "I did. But I've not forgotten."

"Even if I hadn't framed him, there'd still be no way we would have worked it out."

"None at all," She agreed.

"I wouldn't have asked you to do that."

"I doubt you could have," Sylvia said calmly. "Regardless of whoever you may be now, Ed, you're still a good person; I wouldn't think that you would do such a thing. Granted, you killed your first girlfriend, but I think you more than made up for that when you also killed her abusive boyfriend: sunrise, sunset. I could overlook all of that, really, but then you framed my brother for a murder that _you_ knew **I** was guilty of. Sometimes, I still ponder the logic behind _that_ little ruse. But all in all: you hold a fondness for me and I think I can express the same."

"I guess it's fair to say our friendship is a little complicated."

"I'd be more surprised if it wasn't." Sylvia said lowly. She thanked him wordlessly for the tea and drank from her cup in quiet sips. Setting it back down, she asked, "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"When you think of us…is it good?"

Ed looked at her, surprised. Taken back by the inquiry more than anything. He stammered, "Well, sure, I mean…I can't imagine it _wouldn't_ be satisfying. Well, at least on my end."

"Meaning?"

Ed rubbed the back of his neck, and shook his head, saying, "Liv, this is too weird."

"Well, we're talking about it already. Being weirded out is already out the door, Mister."

Hearing her playful remark, Ed said honestly, "There are things I know about you from personal experience—"

"Like when you kissed me in my office—"

"—It was a mistake, I _know—_ "

"We'll just blame it on the _other_ you," Sylvia remarked, smirking at him. She gestured for him to go on.

"Anyway," He said, slightly unhinged. "Back when I was...Well, not who I am now…Kristen made me feel nervous."

"Well, you liked her. Butterflies, fireworks—yada, yada, yada."

" _She_ made me nervous. You intimidated me."

"I threatened to throw you across the room once, I think. I can see why you'd be scared."

"Not 'scared', Liv."

Sylvia blinked; It was her turn to be surprised.

"What are you talking about?" She asked.

"Everything about you," Ed said softly. "The way you dress" (he gestured to her sweats; normally, she wore extravagant clothes) "the way you speak, and how you think. It can intimidate people. And not just men like me."

"Well, Ed. There aren't men like you." Sylvia said soulfully. "And I mean it as a compliment."

"There are always men like me."

"Really?" She said skeptically. "I've never met anyone who thinks, talks, and breathes in riddles. You go out of your way to murder some abusive fucker whose been using your crush like a punching bag. You might have killed Kristen, but I know it was an accident. You're logical, practical—but you think with your heart, not your brain. No matter how fucking analytical you can be. Trust me, Ed. There _are_ no men like you."

"See." He sighed. "That's a clap back to when I referred to the way you speak."

"I speak my mind."

"Much like Kristen did."

"You like me, Ed." Sylvia told him seriously. "You like me because I'm everything that Kristen was not."

"Well, I don't think that's true."

"Isn't it?"

Ed blinked. It was the second time in his life that she had him at a loss for words.

Sylvia took a drink from her cup of tea, saying coolly: "Kristen was soft spoken, sweet, caring…Personally, I thought she was a little shallow; she had to get objectified by Flass and beaten up by Dougherty and you had to kill the son of a bitch before she finally started seeing what was right in front of her. Kristen didn't care for crime, disgusted by it, really, and she had a weak stomach."

"I'm starting to get a little offended, here, Liv."

"Well, get offended." Sylvia said, shrugging carelessly. "It's like I said. Everything that Kristen wasn't, I am. I am brutally honest, crass, offensive, rude, and I speak my mind regardless of who or what wants to kill me for it. I say I'm straightforward and direct; there's no guess work with me, and if I don't like you, I make it as obvious as possible. I'm stronger than you, Oswald, and Butch put together and if I wanted to, I could kill you and you wouldn't have the physical strength or the mental energy to put me down. Whereas men would objectify or hurt Kristen, men love me—they still want to objectify me, but I say 'hey, if I have it, I'll fucking flaunt it'."

She smiled, even as Ed smiled back.

"Now, the Ed I first met who loved riddles, was jittery, and shy as the sun was bright is still in there," She said, leaning forward and poking his head. "But the other you—whoever you are right now—that's at the surface. That's the person who wants to be with me. Your mischievous personality, the one that likes my deviance: your romantic feelings for me, incarnate. The 'you' that wants to be my friend is the person I first met. My only question, for the both of you, is whether or not we can operate as friends, and _only_ friends."

"Your question isn't easy to answer."

"If it's not easy to answer, then I think we should face the music."

"Meaning?"

"You bury your feelings for me," Sylvia told him, standing. "We've spoken of this before. I know you love me: romantically, platonically, _whatever_. And, regardless of what you've done to my brother, I admit that I still have feelings for you. But you're Oswald's friend, as am I, and there would be no conceivable way that I would betray his trust or love."

"Not for me or anyone." Ed said softly.

Sylvia smiled apologetically, saying, "I offer you a friendship that not a lot of people have privy to. I don't consider a lot of people to be my friends. Close acquaintances, at best. The people I trust, I can count them on my hands. That's my brother, Harvey Bullock, Oswald, you, Demetri, Victor, Gabe...and occasionally: Butch."

"You trust that gorilla?"

"I said 'occasionally'."

"So, all that business with Jim…?"

"It's water under the bridge, but I still know who broke the dam, so to speak." Sylvia said coolly. "You made it up to me by helping Jim, me, and Fox _not_ get blown up in a fucking bomb. And you're helping Oswald as his Chief of Staff—congrats, by the way. Sorry that I missed your knighting."

Ed grinned, "Wasn't much of a knighting."

"Well, I'd have to disagree."

"Why?"

"It must have been pretty important because I've never seen Butch so jealous. "

"Maybe he's jealous of Oswald."

"No, no. I'm pretty certain he's jealous of you," Sylvia assured. "Butch doesn't have romantic feelings for me. At best, he likes me because I remind him so much of Fish Mooney."

"That doesn't insult you?"

"It would have irked me in the past, but it has started to grow on me."

"I thought you hated that woman."

"Well, I ran into her when Strange's monsters were on the prowl, still. She likes me again," Sylvia said, shrugging. "I'm not sure how to feel about it but I think she's forgiven me for biting her leg. She's the one that left this scar on my shoulder, mind you."

"I was wondering about that."

"It's mostly faded now, but it was that fish symbol neon light she had in the club."

"The club you now own."

"Mm-hm!"

"Does she know that you own her club now?"

"The last time we met, she was dying thanks to Strange's fuck-up with her DNA," Sylvia answered with a scowl that was meant more for Strange than for Fish. "I doubt she cares who's running her club and why."

Ed nodded, smiling as he drank the rest of his tea and sat it down with finality: "I think I'll be looking further into the motives of the infamous Red Hood Gang. The GCPD obviously have no idea what they're after—they have something against Penguin, and that's all they know."

"Enjoy."

He started to leave, but he turned back around and put his hand on the back of the chair, looking at her from across the table.

"What is it?" Sylvia asked.

"If you had never met Penguin and if I had never known Kristen," Ed said quietly. "Would you have ever noticed me?"

"I don't know." She answered truthfully. "I know it's not the answer you were hoping for. But if it makes any difference to you, I like our friendship as it is. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world."

"I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world either."

"That's good to know."

Ed smiled modestly, and said, "When is that crusade of yours with Zsasz taking place?"

Sylvia smirked, saying, "You plan on coming along?"

Hearing her tease, Ed said candidly, "I'd wish you luck on your violent—however productive and necessary—endeavor but I have no doubt that you'll be able to wrangle whatever it is you're after from this unfortunate citizen."

"Rest assured, you've nothing to fear."

"Do I dare ask if you and Zsasz…"

"No," Sylvia answered. "We're only an office couple, at best."

"I hear he walked you down the aisle at your wedding. I always thought it was a rumor."

"Not a rumor."

"Is that why you trust him?" asked Ed curiously.

"I trust him because he has more than once defended my honor, but yes. He did what Jim couldn't do. He gave me away at my wedding, and it was probably one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me." She said with a gentle smile. "He also took me shopping for my wedding dress."

"And that's one other thing."

"Huh?"

"You see a side to people not many get to see," Ed said endearingly. "You see people as they are, as they were meant to be seen. As they _want_ to be seen."

"Victor was a bridezilla," Sylvia joked. "I doubt anyone wants to see that."

Ed walked over to her and she looked at him with a slighted cautious expression. Then, quite randomly, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. Sylvia startled, but hugged him back. When he reclined back, she looked at him curiously.

"You see the best parts of people, even when they don't see it in themselves."

"You're a closeted murderer who killed his girlfriend and framed my brother." Sylvia said flatly. "You have an ego the size of Texas. I don't think those are what people would consider the 'best' parts about you."

"You also knew Penguin was so much more than a mere wanna-be gangster."

"Again, people might not think that's a good thing either."

"I said you see the best parts in people. The part of us that _we_ think is the best. Not all of it is inherently good."

Sylvia chuckled, "You have the mouth of a poet."

Ed hugged her again, and Sylvia patted his back as he stepped back consciously aware that he was getting too much from this interaction.

"I have to go," He told her. "We'll find these Red Hoods, Liv. Trust me."

"Oh, I have no question about that!" Sylvia called after him as he left.


	9. A Battle of Comebacks

Chapter Nine: A Battle of Comebacks

 **Author's Note: I love writing dialogue between Sylvia and Tabitha. XD**

* * *

The party was taking place at the _Sirens_. Barbara Kean had opted to host the party, a way to endear her and Tabitha to Oswald. While the decorations were being cascaded all over the walls, the mood lights changed on the chandelier; countless people were running in and out to make sure all would be to the hostess' tastes.

Sylvia walked into the club, looking around with idle fascination.

Demetri strolled by her side in a dark pin-striped suit.

He started wearing fancier suits—it was Oswald's idea, so he could keep up appearances. Being near Sylvia, he explained, demanded a distinguished profile that at that time Demetri was lacking. It was a generous way of welcoming the young adult into his and Sylvia's inner circle, and Demetri was so grateful, he'd fallen to his knees and thanked Oswald dramatically.

Seeing Sylvia enter, Barbara met her in the center. Naturally, they exchanged casual greetings. When Barbara kissed Sylvia on the lips, Demetri stiffened, but the latter smiled serenely at her.

"Is that going to be a routine greeting?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"I don't mind if you don't." Barbara breathed, grinning seductively at her.

She licked her lip suggestively, then she seemed to notice Demetri. She gave him a once over.

"Well," She said sarcastically. " _You_ certainly have cleaned up since the last time I saw you. Still living in your car?"

"No." Demetri responded grumpily. His eyes glared back at her. "I've not had to live that sort of lifestyle for some time now. Miss Sylvia and Mr. Penguin have graciously allowed me to live with them."

"How generous." Barbara said, smirking at him. She added, "But that doesn't surprise me. Our Lark is always so charitable. I should know."

At her suggestion, Demetri raised his eyebrows awkwardly. Sylvia turned to him and said, "I gave her the means of opening this club."

"Oh, I thought she meant—"

"—I know, that's why I explained." Sylvia returned quickly.

"Someone a little _jealous_?" Barbara teased, still grinning as widely as ever at Demetri. "You know, you seem to be on her hip everywhere she goes. Helping her, buying her drinks, tending to her _every_ need. What exactly are you to her anyway?"

"Don't start drama, B." Sylvia reprimanded.

"I'm just curious. He helps with the baby, helps with your duties…I'm just curious if he helps with other things too. A man with such a strong chin and _look_ at those amber eyes." Barbara cooed. She stepped towards Demetri, who, in all good intentions, took a step back.

"Do you need any help decorating?" Sylvia asked, walking past her.

Barbara ignored Demetri's unsettled expression and she joined her friend at the bar where the bartender offered to get a drink for Sylvia, who politely declined. Barbara sat on a pew beside her. Demetri remained standing just a little behind Sylvia, his hands folded in front of him as he sternly observed their whereabouts.

"We can handle ourselves," Barbara answered. "I appreciate you coming out to see us."

"Nope. Just you."

"Still butt-hurt about Tabby, huh."

"Always will be."

"What if she apologized for killing your mother-in-law? Would that soften the blow?"

Sylvia sent her a filthy look and Barbara quickly held up a hand in surrender saying, "Okay! Okay, easy. It was just a thought."

A moment passed where Demetri shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sylvia glanced at him curiously, noticing that he was restless. Just as well, he was right to be so antsy. Sylvia felt someone breeze by her and her fingers clenched as soon as Tabitha made an appearance, standing beside Barbara. The two of them kissed, their lips lingering before Tabitha smirked at Sylvia.

"Don't vex me, Galavan," She warned. "Or, I swear to god, I will poke you in the eyeball with a spoon."

"Don't you mean a knife?"

"No. I mean a spoon. It's dull. It would hurt more."

"Well, I can certainly see that you're in a mood," Tabitha sighed, smiling despite the threat. "Took the baby weight off really quick. How'd you manage that?"

Sylvia sent her a look, and asked Barbara, "What the fuck is she doing?"

"She's being _friendly_ , Liv."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Tabitha said sweetly, "I figure we could put the past behind us and—"

"You killed Gertrud." Sylvia said snidely. "You let her out of the cell and then you stabbed her. How exactly am I supposed to get over that?"

"You got over Butch killing Josh. He shot him dead." Tabitha reminded.

"I mourned Josh."

"I'm sure you did. And then you replaced him with this one," Tabitha chuckled, gesturing ironically to Demetri, who looked at all three women with an expression that read 'I don't want to be here'.

"Demetri, honey." Sylvia said with a hard smile.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Would you mind going to the car?"

"Do you need anything from there?"

"No. I'm just going to be heading there soon, and I would like you to turn on the air conditioner." Sylvia said with forced sweetness.

Her smile hadn't left her face; Demetri nodded quickly, glancing uncertainly at Tabitha. Wary of her safety, Demetri leaned into Sylvia, asking, "Are you sure you want me to leave?"

"Very. Please do as I ask."

"As you wish." Demetri replied, and he left shortly.

Barbara giggled, "'As you wish'. So charming, that one."

Sylvia turned and glowered at Tabitha, saying, "You know, I think I've been pretty patient and fairly polite towards you with all things considered."

"You threatened to stab me in my eye." She said coolly. "And I was just being friendly."

"Someone like you isn't just 'friendly'."

"Liv," Barbara cautioned. "We're going to have a party here soon. And we'll all be gathered in a room together. Don't you think it's time we try to be a little more civil?"

Sylvia glanced at Barbara, who looked back at her with a pleading expression, so she stepped closer to her. The corner of Barbara's mouth tugged upward when Sylvia kissed her cheek as she uttered curtly, "For you, B. I'll be civil."

"Okay…!" Tabitha snapped. She placed herself between Barbara and Sylvia, saying, "What the hell is going on between you two? What is this!"

Sylvia stared at her, shocked by Tabitha's sudden jealousy. Sure, she knew Tabitha was envious when she kissed Barbara but that was a more than subtle reaction. A tigress, the people called her. A tigress whose back arched upwards and her hair stood on end as she hissed in fury.

"She was just kissing my cheek 'goodbye'," Barbara said innocently, smiling.

"Because I'm here." Tabitha said spitefully.

"You know it," Sylvia mused, grinning widely as Tabitha's eyes flashed dangerously at her. "Don't worry, _Tabby_. I have no intentions of stealing Barbara from you. After all, you two are so close these days."

Tabitha looked as though she would slacken her anger but then Sylvia leaned forward and sneered, "But if I _wanted_ to steal her from you, I _could_. She's told me before how much she wants me."

" _Really_?" Tabitha said, glaring at Barbara.

"Well, it's a fact, baby," Barbara sighed, smiling apologetically. "Everyone wants a piece of her. Look at her. She's gorgeous, smart, and even _you_ must admit that. Personally, I think you two hate each other so much, I've gotten a little curious whether or not you ladies have a thing for each other."

"I do not—!" Tabitha gasped.

"—Keep dreaming," Sylvia scoffed.

"I don't know," Barbara sang. "You're basically at each other's throats anytime you see each other. Same violent streak, same temper."

"We are _not_ the same," Tabitha snarled.

"No one was saying that."

"You implied it."

"Well, maybe just a little."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, muttering, "Unbelievable."

"The party's going to be glamorous," Barbara said, switching up the topic. "Lights, music, entertainment."

Sylvia asked, business-like: "Who did you hire for your entertainment?"

"Well, seeing as Tetch is unavailable—"

"Fucking hypnotist," Tabitha and Sylvia snarled simultaneously. They glanced at each other, confused. Meanwhile, Barbara was grinning eagerly between the two of them.

"So, who did you get?" Sylvia asked impatiently.

"Some band."

"'Some band'?"

"Yeah."

"What do they call themselves?"

"Didn't ask. They came, told me they wanted to perform, get the word out—that typical hum-drum—so I hired them."

Sylvia crossed her arms, saying, "Just like that?"

"Yes."

"You hired them without knowing who they are."

"Mm-hm."

Tabitha asked, "When are they coming?"

"Sometime tonight."

"Did they rehearse?" asked Sylvia.

"Who knows."

"You don't know if they're good?"

"I was feeling impulsive," said Barbara, shrugging. "Sue me."

"I might have to!" Sylvia retorted. "You know, _I_ am in the music industry. Singing, dancing—People call me a lark for god's sake. I could have gotten you some pretty good numbers. Not to mention these people you hired might be working for someone else."

"Yeah," Tabitha breathed humorously. "Maybe _they_ have a beef with Penguin too. Maybe they're working in cahoots with the Red Hoods."

"Did you just say 'cahoots'?" asked Barbara incredulously.

Tabitha chuckled, "I guess I did."

Sylvia sighed, "Would you at least consider whomever I put on the list?"

"I said I already hired them," Barbara told her.

"And if they suck?" Tabitha asked. "We'll lose business. It's bad enough we're throwing a party for Penguin."

"Baby…" Barbara said. "We're doing fine. Business is great—look around."

"Yeah, I'm looking around. I can already tell you something I don't really care for. I'm looking right at it." Tabitha uttered.

"I'm sorry," Sylvia responded. "Did you just call me an 'it'?"

"I was looking at you, wasn't I."

"I don't know. Maybe you have a case of the cross-eyes."

"Did I look cross-eyed?"

"I try not to look at your face," Sylvia said with mock embarrassment. "It makes me a little queasy."

"I try not to look at _your_ face: makes me want to vomit."

"Maybe if you did more of that, you might lose _your_ baby weight."

Tabitha started towards Sylvia; Barbara held up her arms, so she separated the two women. She said loudly, "We do _not_ need this, ladies!"

"She just called me 'fat'."

"What are we—in high school?" Barbara exclaimed. She looked at Sylvia: "Now who's starting drama?"

"She started it," Tabitha reminded. "Remember? I was just being friendly. Remind me not to make that mistake again."

"Yeah, it must be hard to be you." Sylvia said contemptuously. "Takes a lot of willpower to be a decent human being, doesn't it?"

"A lot harder to be _you._ You have to live with your beaky little—"

"—Don't you finish that fucking sentence—"

"—Don't tell me what to do!" Tabitha snapped. "I don't work for you."

"No, you work for her." Sylvia retorted, pointing to Barbara. "Still playing Number Two to anyone that bothers taking you in. Fitting, actually, since you're a piece of shit."

"You little _bitch—_ "

"—Barbara let her go so we can just get this out of the way—"

"—Tabitha! Liv! WOULD YOU ALL JUST STOP ALREADY!"

Sylvia and Tabitha raised their eyebrows at Barbara who breathlessly looked at either of them, dropping her hands to her side.

"This is idiotic!" She continued. "The Mayor's party—"

"—It's amazing he was even elected—"

"Tabby, _please_. The party is just a few hours away. If you two keep fighting, all the decorations might come down and then something is going to get broken." Barbara said cautiously. "Now we're all adults here…"

"Most of us anyway," Sylvia jeered.

"Oh, nice one." Tabitha scoffed. "Is that all you got?"

"Oh, don't worry, I _have_ more."

"That's what you think."

"It's what I know!" Sylvia snapped.

She and Tabitha were about to have another go at each other until Barbara smacked her hand on the counter, hard enough that it stopped the two ladies from scrapping; she'd drawn attention to herself and it worked.

"Seriously," Barbara stated. "We are grown women. We all have businesses to keep in check, _and—_ for the moment—we're working together to accomplish the simplest of tasks."

"We're not working together." Tabitha said harshly.

"Fair enough," Barbara mediated. "We're working…just working. So, Liv" (She turned to her friend) "We'll do our part to make the party sparkle. Give me your references, I'll look into hiring better entertainment."

"Since," Tabitha mocked, "she's such a snob when it comes to entertainment."

"Well, I know a thing or two about it," Sylvia said defensively. "I've thrown parties that would make _yours_ look like it was a street fight in the fucking Narrows."

"Oh, I'm sure you know all about entertainment, honey."

"Don't call me 'honey'. I'm not your fucking girlfriend."

"Well, I like the pet name."

"I don't like you."

"Don't like you either, so it's even."

"I could put a hole in the floor, so you can sink knee-high, and only then would I call us 'even'."

"So, you think you're better than me?"

"Oh, I know I am," Sylvia assured sardonically. "In every way you could possibly comprehend—which, now that I think about it, aren't many."

Barbara pointed to the door: "I think it's best if you left, Liv. We'll get everything taken care of."

"Fine. See you later, B." And like that, she was out of the door with Tabitha glowering after her.


	10. When Two Men Love A Woman

Chapter Ten: When Two Men Love A Woman

* * *

 **Author** **'** **s Note** : Thank you so much for your reviews, Guest. I would have so much to say if I had the option of replying to your reviews, but I can't . Just know that I appreciate every kind word!

* * *

Csilla was practicing her daily 'tummy time': an exercise babies did on their bellies that strengthened their neck muscles so they could lift their heads easier. Since Csilla refused to get on her belly all by herself, Sylvia was down on the living floor with her.

When Tummy Time seemed as though it was finished, Csilla rolled onto her back and then with a force that could set the whole household alight with pride, she shoved her hands in front of her and forced herself upwards, sitting up all by herself. At least for a full thirty seconds before she started to dive downward; Sylvia caught and lifted the baby once she'd sat up and sat the little one on her lap.

"Ohhh," Sylvia cooed, "Look at her, big girl learning how to sit up by herself. Such a smart girl, such a _clever_ little baby!"

Csilla sat facing her mother, staring up at her inquisitively before hearing the praising voice; at the sound, she beamed like a lighthouse, giggling. Sylvia put her hands over her face, 'disappearing'; to that instant, Csilla let out a questionable 'uh!'.

"Where's Mommy, huh?" Sylvia teased. She 'appeared', saying, " _Here_ _'_ _s_ Mommy!"

Csilla bounced up and down excitedly, trying to point at her. She reached up and touched Sylvia's face. Sylvia then repeated the same action and Csilla giggled when she 'reappeared' once more.

"There's Mommy…!"

From the dining room, Sylvia heard Oswald getting himself into a frenzy as he said, " _These Red Hoods are testing me, Ed!_ _"_

Sylvia uttered jokingly to Csilla who stared at her with the biggest pair of blue eyes, "I guess we know where Daddy is, don't we, Turtle Dove."

Csilla snickered: "Dada!"

"That's right. That's Dada." Sylvia praised. She stood, pulling Csilla into her so the baby didn't fall over. "Let's see what Dada's getting mad about."

" _Dada_!" Csilla squeaked happily.

Sylvia walked into the dining room, holding Csilla in one arm. As she entered the room, she saw Ed Nygma sitting at the table with a red hood resting on the surface; folders and profiles no doubt taken from the GCPD to view to his own discretion were scattered about in front of him. Meanwhile, Oswald was pacing furiously back and forth, holding a glass of wine filled more than halfway as he expressed his frustrations further.

However, seeing Sylvia and his daughter enter the room, Oswald tried to pull back some of his animosity. He glanced at them with a small smile of recognition; feeling his gaze lift over his shoulder, Ed glanced over and met Sylvia's entertained gaze with a polite business smile of his own.

"What did the Red Hoods do now?" asked Sylvia ironically.

"Dada!" Csilla whined, holding her hand out.

Oswald put the glass down and, unable to deny Csilla's demands, he met Sylvia, who gingerly handed Csilla over to him. Once in his embrace, Csilla was smiling widely again; her eyes bounced from Ed, who remained seated, to Oswald, who still appeared haggard despite everything, and Sylvia, who sat across from Ed.

"They attacked the Merc." Ed told her in a matter-of-fact tone. "I thought you had a guard there."

" _Guards_." Sylvia emphasized. "And I used to have plenty."

"'Used to'?"

"Captain Barnes led the Strike Force there, about the same time when he and the GCPD raided the Count House."

"But that was some time ago."

"Yes, it was. Galavan was _really_ happy about that."

"The sister?"

"The brother," Sylvia returned, curling her upper lip as she added, "Pretty much one in the same. The only difference between Tabitha and Theo is whatever they have between their legs."

"Crude," Ed chuckled.

"But true." Sylvia sighed, shrugging carelessly. "Theo was a hard ass, a reprehensible jackass right to the end, but at least he had some charm."

Csilla whined and Sylvia glanced over to see Oswald looking up at the ceiling as though he was praying for some patience. As with all the other times that had happened while the baby was in his arms, Csilla had found his tie yet again; she was batting it up and down as she'd done all the other times, and it was irking him.

"Did the Red Hoods take anything from the Merc?"

"No." Ed answered dismissively.

"So, they _didn't_ attack it. They tried to, but failed."

"The effort exacerbated to accomplish the attack wasn't the point," Ed told her, glancing up at her for a second before returning his gaze to the documents at hand.

"My point was that I may have a few less guards there, but they didn't get far, did they? And _that's_ the point. Why did the Red Hoods try to attack the Merc anyway?" Sylvia asked. "That's not a 'Mayor' territorial thing. That's a 'Penguin' territorial thing."

"They're challenging my authority as a whole, Pigeon." Oswald told her irritably. "They think just because I'm mayor I won't do anything about it."

"So, going by that logic, they'd think that just because I'm a mother, I won't put them six feet under the ground."

Csilla made what sounded like a scathing noise, and she made a raspberry. It unintentionally made Oswald smile, seeing as how that was a perfect response and possibly one that he could have expressed as well.

"The Red Hoods attacked every guard that was in that warehouse," Ed stated, glancing over the police reports. "They injured several."

"Did any of them die?" asked Sylvia bluntly.

"No."

"Well, I don't know about you, Mr. Riddles" (Ed and Oswald glanced at her with amused expressions at her nickname for him) "but I consider that a plus."

"Perhaps," Ed said slowly, "They're trying to send a message."

Sylvia chuckled, "By half-assing an attack on one of the largest profitable businesses? They didn't even kill anyone. What kind of message is that?"

"It's a convoluted one."

"It's _very_ subtle," She agreed.

"Pigeon, would you please take her?" Oswald asked, annoyed.

Sylvia nodded, holding her arms out to him. Oswald handed the baby to her; Sylvia started bouncing Csilla on her knees, and the baby let out a small happy 'uh!' each time her butt landed on Sylvia's knees.

Ed perused the documents in front of him. Curious to the affects, Sylvia leaned forward and picked up a file. It was in a vanilla-colored envelope, slim and new. There were photos inside taken from the security cameras. The Red Hoods were masked, of course, and one looked like he was enjoying the rodeo, his gun aimed up at the ceiling.

"They were having fun, it looks like." Sylvia noted.

"It appears that way."

"Then again, if I was waving _my_ dick around, I'd say I'd like to be caught on camera too."

Her comment made Ed smile a little while Oswald continued to be annoyed.

"Why would someone go out of their way to blow up a priest and then make a split-second decision to gate crash at the Merc?" She asked.

"I believe they wanted to rob it," Ed pointed out, glancing at the photo she held out to him.

"What did they rob? Nothing. They stole nothing. They didn't kill anyone. What the fuck were they after then?"

Ed let out a sigh of exasperation, saying, "Maybe they're testing the waters."

After Oswald had handed Csilla over to Sylvia, he'd started his pacing. Grumbling under his breath his idle threats of what he'd do to the Red Hood Gang once he had them in his clutches, and, once again, getting himself into another frenzy while he'd picked up his drink and drank from it simultaneously.

"I already told you, Ed," Oswald said irritably. "Someone is testing me. They're thinking 'Oh, he's Mayor now, he has to play by different rules'. Well, they'll see…when I'm roasting their entrails over a _fire_."

Sylvia grinned darkly at the threat: "Well, I guess that takes care of dinner plans."

Oswald sent her a look to which she politely returned an apologetic smile. Ed looked over the documents still, his mind working a hundred miles per hour. And then, he said more to himself than anyone else: "Perhaps I'm thinking about this all wrong."

Oswald stopped pacing, looking at Ed inquisitively.

Sylvia stopped bouncing Csilla on her knees and instead, tried brushing the baby's raven hair from her forehead; her hair was growing so fast, it would almost be time to start putting it up in little pigtails.

"Maybe this isn't about you," Ed told them, glancing at Oswald indicatively. "Maybe it's about the statue."

Oswald snapped, " _Of course it's about me_!"

"Of course, you're right…Oh, dear," Ed responded, as both he and Sylvia noticed that along with his snippy remark, he'd spilled wine on the table and on himself.

The smallest wrench thrown into the already smoking scheme of things made Oswald snip, "Oh _wonderful_!"

"Oswald. Take a breath," Ed advised.

Sylvia noticed that it was pretty much the same thing he'd advised her to do. He took a napkin, dipping it in a glass of water and then started pouring salt on Oswald's sleeve, making the latter look at him incredulously.

" _What_ are you doing?"

"It's a trick I learned in the lab," Ed answered promptly as he dabbed the condiment as well as the napkin together. "Most solvents have as their base…"

He paused, and Oswald waited for him to finish. Then Ed grinned suddenly, and said to both Cobblepots, "I am the son of water, but when water touches me, I die. What am I?"

"Again, with the riddles," Oswald sighed.

" _Salt_!" Sylvia answered, grinning happily.

Oswald and Ed glanced at her; Ed said happily, " _Yes_. Most people think of it as a food additive, but potassium salt is found in detergents, soaps—"

" _What_ is your point, Ed?" Oswald interrupted impatiently.

Ed said with a wide grin, "I know where the Red Hoods are."

"Where?"

"A detergent factory."

Sylvia chortled, "Odd place for Headquarters."

"There are _worse_ places, Liv."

"Touché, Mr. Riddles."

Oswald said pointedly, "Will you stop this" (he gestured between them, referring to their back-and-forth) "so we can leave already? Sylvia" (She looked at readily) "get our boys together; we're taking a trip to the factory."

"Will do," Sylvia said lightly. "I'll see if Demetri can watch Csilla. Can't have her coming with us; she's precious cargo."

Oswald watched her leave with Csilla in her arms. After a moment had passed, Oswald turned to look at Ed, who had been doing the same.

"Care to come along?" He asked.

Ed smiled, saying, "I would be more than happy to."

"If you don't have one already," Oswald told him patiently, "Sylvia can get you a firearm. She has an extensive collection; I'm sure she'll find something that you like."

As he spoke, Oswald took out his phone saying, "I'm going to call Butch. The more people we have, the faster we can be done with this."

* * *

Ed left the dining room, looking for Sylvia, who appeared back in the living room once Demetri had taken Csilla off her hands. As though she was preparing for a war (and who knew: maybe that's what they were walking into), Sylvia strode in his direction, placing a handgun behind her back between it and the waistband of her jeans; a switchblade in the front pocket, and she smiled plainly when he glanced at her expectantly.

"Oswald asked me to come along," Ed said with a satisfied smile.

"Wonderful."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"Not for _me_ , no."

"He said you might have something for me."

"Excuse me?"

"A gun, Liv."

"Oh." Sylvia returned, smiling nervously. "I thought you meant—well it sounded like—you know what, never mind, sure, come with me."

He followed her upstairs and he hesitated before passing the threshold of her and Oswald's bedroom. Silently, she gave him permission, waving her hand for him to come in.

"What do you like?" Sylvia asked.

"What do you have?"

"How like a man's response," She muttered, rolling her eyes.

She opened the door to a walk-in closet, flipping a switch to turn on the light only a second after. At first, to Ed's understanding, it appeared to be a normal closet.

One side of the closet was obviously Oswald's: the suits hanging on the left; most of them were steamed, pressed, and the creases were enviable. On the other side of the closet was a variety of clothes that Sylvia wore. From her party clothes when she was being a hostess, entertainer and most recently, the Mayor's Wife, to the clothes that Sylvia seemed to prefer. They were jeans, long sleeve shirts, tank tops, a leather jacket, and an assortment of boots and sneakers. There were a couple of heels, and Ed couldn't help but grow to admire that even when she was surrounded by riches, splendor, and treasured with expensive tastes revered by her husband that Sylvia still liked to keep things casual.

She may have been a Cobblepot for the past few years. When it came down to it, she was still a Gordon.

"Do you like them small or big?"

Ed blinked and stammered, "I-I—I'm sorry, what?"

"Firepower." Sylvia explained shortly, smirking when his cheeks were dusted with a little pink. "Do you like shotguns and assault rifles, or are you a Glock man?"

"Lady's choice." Ed returned charmingly, gesturing to her.

Sylvia clicked her tongue, raising her eyebrows curiously at him before she turned back around within the closet.

She opened a panel that had been hidden by one of her coats and she pressed a button; there was a mechanical sound that followed the click and what Ed had assumed to be an array of her shoes sitting on a five-shelf mount turned out to be a revolving door hanger; turning in front of him was a wall-sized shelf with an array of weapons, to include: shotguns, assault rifles, automatic rifles, side-arms, and even—to his startling surprise—a rocket launcher.

As aloof as one could be, Sylvia leaned forward, and grabbed a side-arm from the wall. Wordlessly, she popped the barrel open, glancing inside, and once satisfied with whatever it was that she saw, she snapped it back into place with the heel of her palm and threw it to him. Ed caught it, looking at her, mesmerized.

"I'd give you a _shotgun_ ," Sylvia stated, "but you're a perfectionist and I figure you wouldn't need that much firepower to kill a man."

"I have more experience with a handgun anyway."

"I thought you _stabbed_ Dougherty."

"I did."

"And you killed that guy in the woods with a _shovel_."

"Also, true."

"And you strangled Kristen."

"Yes."

Sylvia tilted her head to side, saying, "So in what way are you more experienced with a hand gun? Given the nature of your means, I think you'd perform equally well with a hoe."

"I'm sorry?"

"A hoe," Sylvia repeated. She grinned in amusement, adding, "Farmers use it to keep the weeds down in their vegetable garden."

"Oh yes, that…that 'hoe'."

"I'm guessing you've shot a gun before, so I don't have to take you to target practice," Sylvia assumed, walking past him through the closet and then into the center of the bedroom.

Ed followed her with his gaze, still enthralled.

He didn't get to see this warrior side of his friend much. He'd seen the Hostess, the Wife, the Sister of James Gordon come out all too often, but this was the first time where he'd seen Lark come out to play. Lark, who was not just Penguin's beloved, but was also the Penguin's enforcer.

Sylvia knelt and pulled open the bottom drawer of the end table nearest to her side of the bed. Wordlessly, she shifted the contents inside the drawer; finding a box and what was obviously the object of her search, Sylvia straightened to her full height, and opened it.

"Fascinating," Ed whispered.

"What is?"

Ed startled again: he hadn't realized he'd spoken his admiration aloud. Now that she'd apparently heard his thoughts, he confessed, "I can't say I've ever seen this side of you before."

"Don't feel too flattered, Mr. Riddles," Sylvia said jokingly. She grabbed a bar from the box and tossed it to him; he caught it. "Most people get to see _this_ side of me. It's my friendship that many aren't privy to, something _you_ have, so don't waste it. That's the ammo for the gun you're holding."

Ed noted the bar she'd tossed over to him was simply that; he minded the rounds, counting quickly, then plugged the clip into the gun.

"The safety is on the left. And it's off."

"Good to know."

"Just in case things get physical," Sylvia said offhandedly, "I have a few knives downstairs. If you want one, that is. Personally, I've become estranged to them…now that I can break a neck if I wanted to. I don't doubt you'd be able to physically fend for yourself, but I'm guessing you'd prefer something to fuck up a person's organs instead of trying to throw a punch."

Towards the end there, he was getting a little offended, but her condescension softened to something that sounded like admiration, if not a simple statement of his own capability.

"You don't keep them in your weapon room?" Ed asked curiously, gesturing to the closet they'd come out of only a few minutes prior.

"No. I keep them separate. And, for what it's worth, Ed, _that's_ not a weapon room."

"I imagine you have a bigger room planned for such a name."

"A _much_ bigger room."

"I can't wait to see it."

Sylvia walked up to him, close enough that they were in close parameter of each other. Ed could feel his breathing getting harder, the way she was standing and so close to him too!

"Are you flirting with me, Ed?"

"No, well—I suppose I am."

"Hm." She looked at him with a cool expression, and said in the same tone, "I don't think you've ever flirted with me before."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't be."

He stared at her, uncertain of what she meant by that. Instead of being more direct about her thoughts, she opted for mystery as she cracked a grin, saying, "Once we go to that warehouse, we'll probably have to kill a lot of people."

Oh, back to business, Ed figured. He couldn't help but smile back at her: "It sounds fun."

"Oh, I'm sure it will be."

"Do you expect to come out with any hostages?"

"Not really. The less hostages, the better."

"Is that what Oswald told you?"

"It's what I know," Sylvia replied with an impish grin. "These people knocked over a statue of his mother—if we do take any hostages, it will not be to retrieve any viable information. Things typically get messy when Oz is out for blood."

"Are _you_?"

"Am I what?"

"Are **you** out for blood?"

"As much as I can possibly take, yeah." Sylvia said shamelessly.

Ed didn't realize she was cornering him; that was until his back hit the wall, and Sylvia smirked at him. He held that gun to his chest, doubting that he'd ever really use it. He remembered the few times where Sylvia demonstrated just how much stronger she was than him; it had been terrifying but equally exhilarating. And every part of him thought so.

There was an alluring feel to the way she was looking at him; her eyes observing his over all appearance.

"Once the Red Hoods are gone, it'll just make this whole Mayoral thing a lot easier." Sylvia said with a loose smile.

"There will always be people waiting to challenge him, Liv."

"So, let them."

"I'm guessing you look forward to something like this on a monthly basis?"

"Oh, _weekly_ at best."

Ed grinned at her response. In turn, he asked, "So, how about that knife?"

"Sure. Follow me."

She led him down the stairs. As she did, she pulled her hair back into a long ponytail; with a bounce of her step, it flicked left and right. Sylvia stopped by the living room to ask if Demetri needed anything before she left; he said he had it all taken care of.

They moved into the Meeting Room (or rather, the Dining Room) where Oswald was briefing both his and Sylvia's men on the mission at hand. In the audience was Gabe, who looked restless. Since Oswald had taken Office, the fun times of killing, mugging, blackmailing, roasting, and plundering people around had dulled. Now was time for action, and he seemed ready to take hold of it, much like Sylvia.

Oswald saw Sylvia and Ed walking together past him. Once the men were aware of everything that would happen, he joined them in the kitchen where Sylvia offered Ed a switchblade the size of a paring knife.

"How many men did you say were in that gang?" Sylvia asked conversationally.

Ed placed the knife in the innermost pocket of his jacket while he followed Sylvia's example and placed the handgun behind his back; tucking it into the waistband and covering it with his jacket.

"Six. Seven, at the most."

"That's a shame."

"Why is that?" Oswald asked, drawing both Ed and Sylvia's gaze to him.

"The fun is going to be over before it begins," Sylvia answered disappointedly. "If there were ten or twenty, I'd say this would be a hoot-and-a-half, but alas. Here we are."

Oswald leaned against the kitchen counter, looking between them plainly. Perhaps there was a question that he needed to ask, but he seemed less inclined to ask now. Not when the Red Hoods and their leader were so close to being eliminated from his list of worries.

"How many people are we bringing in total?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald answered her: "About ten, including Victor."

"There's only six of them." She returned reprovingly.

"That doesn't sound sporting," Ed said amusedly.

Oswald scoffed, "They decapitated the statue of my mother. All matter of sport flew out the window when they did that."

"Yes," Ed agreed slowly. "I'd say so."

Sylvia sneered, "Still, bringing a gun to a knife fight."

" _Guns_." Ed emphasized wittingly.

Sylvia chuckled, "My point exactly." She looked at Oswald, asking, "Is Butch coming?"

"He's going to meet us there."

"Where is he now?"

"He didn't say, Pigeon."

Ed and Sylvia glanced at one another curiously. There was a subtle shift in the air between the two of them, and it was a curiosity that Oswald gathered all too quickly. But not one of suspicion either.

"We're killing them all, right?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald said, "What do _you_ think?"

"Just being clear, sweetie."

"Yes. Kill them all."

Sylvia smirked, saying to Ed, "See? I told you."

Ed said with subdued satisfaction: " _Clearly_ , you did. Seven gangsters against ten people. I doubt you'll be getting much fun out of it."

"What, you think I'll be sharing?"

Ed's eyebrow quirked upwards, saying, "Weren't you?"

"Hell no. I planned on slaughtering all of them at once." Sylvia said, waving a hand dismissively at the men in the other room. "They can try to get one shot in, but it's going to be a waste of ammo. Why Oswald" (he glanced at her pointedly) "always insists on bringing a car full of clowns on the way there is beyond me when he _knows_ I can do the job solo."

"You _know_ why I insist." Oswald chastised.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"Maybe I forgot." Sylvia said innocently.

"You'd have me repeat myself?"

"I just don't see the point why we have to bring them, Victor, and—"

"To keep you safe." Oswald interrupted, but he hadn't been the only speaker.

Ed had said it along with him.

Sylvia glanced between them, and said with a small smile but one of reservation and surrender, "Fine then. Bring the lot. But I _still_ plan on killing those Red Hoods the moment we set foot inside that factory."

Oswald and Ed traded expressions that Sylvia couldn't read. Provided that they weren't going to start a war amongst themselves about who cared for her safety more, Sylvia excused herself politely and decidedly left to check on the restless minions in the other room. As she left, Oswald looked after her.

"How long do you think it'll take for her to take all of them down?" Ed asked as he crossed his arms, leaning against the counter adjacent to Oswald.

"Less than a minute."

"For six people, all of whom are more than likely carrying?"

Oswald nodded, saying, "She's impulsive, but she's good at what she does."

"Oh, there's no arguing about that." Ed breathed.

After a moment passed, Oswald asked, "You care for her, don't you, Ed?"

Ed said carefully, "You know the answer to that."

"I just want to hear you say it."

"Say what?"

"You know what."

Ed looked at Oswald, who he expected to be irritated by the admission of his own emotional attachment but instead, he saw something else. Not really any raw emotion, as though Oswald might have been exceptionally possessive as Ed had witnessed a few times, but something more cautious and attentive.

Ed said sincerely, "I care for Sylvia, Oswald. I care for her a great deal."

Oswald looked at him with a cool gaze: "How far are you willing to go to prove that?"

Ed confessed, "As far as I _can_ go."

"Good to know." Oswald returned with a smile, obviously satisfied with his answer. He patted Ed on the back, adding, "I'm sure she appreciates that, friend."

"If you say so."

Oswald chuckled, "What does _that_ mean?"

"I'm still trying to figure out whether or not she appreciates that, or I just annoy her."

"Yes, she is a mystery."

"It's ironic, actually," Ed noted. "She's straightforward, direct."

"She takes all the guesswork out of it," Oswald added.

Ed laughed, "Oh _yes_ , and I am especially grateful for that."

"Aren't we all."

"And yet, she's so cryptic."

Oswald agreed and joked, "I'd say she's the only riddle you've been unable to solve."

Ed caught the tease and said curiously, "Have _you_ figured her out?"

"I'd like to say I have, but even _I'm_ not sure."

Both men walked into the Meeting Room to see Sylvia talking to Dagger, Chilly, and Gabe about the best way to kill a man and keep him conscious enough to see his own head being ripped off his body. Her animated speech and how passionately she gesticulated those violent motions made Dagger and Chilly stare at her in both admiration and fear while Ed and Oswald seemed almost mesmerized.

"Fascinating." Oswald and Ed whispered simultaneously. Hearing the word spoken from the other, they grinned, exchanging expressions of mutual agreement.


	11. Work Husbands

Chapter Eleven: Work Husbands

 **Author's Note** : Thank you for all of your beautiful messages and reviews. I'm always appreciative of them and all of you 😊

* * *

Funnily enough, the trip to the warehouse had taken a lot longer than disposing of the Red Hood Gang. Oswald, Ed, and Sylvia led the group which consisted of Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and Victor Zsasz; they'd expected something impressive to happen—perhaps a shoot-out—but when they strode inside the warehouse, there were seven bodies on the floor with Butch appearing to be the survivor and hero of the evening. While Ed looked on in disgruntled and skeptical fashion, Oswald was appeased by Butch's apparent heroic initiative; he'd hosted a press conference in the Meeting Room of his mansion where he congratulated and honored Butch Gilzean for his efforts. During such an event, Butch appeared modest.

There was a considerable toast to his valiance, and while the press took pictures of him and Oswald, Sylvia stood on the sidelines, drinking a glass of tea in the kitchen. After guzzling it down to assuage her parched mouth, she refilled it; she peered over her shoulder when she heard a clad of familiar footsteps padding through the threshold of the kitchen doorway.

"Good afternoon, Ed." Sylvia greeted, smiling candidly at him. She held up the gallon of tea as an offering.

Ed shook his head once, preferring to lean against the refrigerator with his arms crossed. His hair was slicked back elegantly, and he reminded Sylvia of a charming businessman, one who could be charmed more by wit than a simple flash of a woman's rack. Why the thought popped itself into her brain at that moment, she didn't know; maybe it was the jives of knowing the Sirens were hosting that party; the booze would run like the waves of Niagara Falls; or perhaps it was the sugar in the tea.

She silently poured only herself a glass, humming primarily to herself. Ed's serious expression wasn't daunting, but it piqued her interest.

" _Smile_ , Mr. Riddles," Sylvia joked, earning a curious look from him. "The Red Hoods have been ' _vanquished_ '." She made a dramatic swoop of her arm similar to what a magician might have done when something had 'disappeared'. "You could try to be cheerful."

Ed said dryly, "I'd be more cheerful if what you said was true."

Sylvia placed the gallon on the kitchen counter wordlessly; she took a small drink, only to grimace at the taste. A smile of familiarity tugged on the corner of Ed's mouth and he stepped past her, reaching to the cabinets that were above her head, and from them he pulled out a box of sweetener. He promptly closed the cabinet doors a moment after, placing the box in front of Sylvia, who looked at him with a hint of confusion.

"Two spoons." Ed stated factually, taking a silver spoon from the drawer closest to him, handing it to her: "Correct?"

"You _are_ correct. Thank you." Sylvia returned graciously. She added the sugar into her tea, stirring it, then after taking a sip, she added, "Much better."

"I thought so."

"The gallon says 'sweet tea'."

"A fact, but has it ever been sweet enough for you."

"Point taken. So," Sylvia sighed, turning to him with one hand on the counter and the other holding her glass. "That was quite the press conference, wasn't it?"

"I can't argue that."

"You're skeptical, aren't you?"

"What could I possibly be skeptical about?"

"I know that expression of yours," Sylvia said impishly, pointing at his face. "It's the same facial expression you had whenever you doubted whatever it was that the original M.E. had to say about an autopsy. The one _before_ Lee."

"That medical examiner was incompetent. How he managed to get the job is beyond my comprehension, merely because it's completely illogical."

"So you're saying it's beneath you to understand why a man of his deficiency became a medical examiner," Sylvia returned lightly. "And here I thought you needed to understand _everything_."

"I'm only interested in facts, logic, and practicality. I don't burden myself with the impracticality of an amateur."

"He was licensed."

"I doubt it."

Sylvia chuckled, "I digress, then. So going back to my earlier question: You're skeptical. Clearly, you appear to be. I'm just curious what you're so disgruntled about."

Ed bounced his back off the refrigerator in a confident flourish and said pointedly, "The Red Hoods were arbitrarily aggressive, despite having _no_ existing motivation except to disrupt Oswald's businesses and what was supposed to be a grand ceremony."

"And that's befuddling to you?"

"I'm never befuddled." Ed responded abruptly, looking offended.

" 'Confused'?"

"I'm neither 'befuddled' nor 'confused'."

"So 'skeptical', then."

"I prefer that, yes."

"Why are you skeptical?"

"I came back from the crime scene." Ed informed.

"Alone? People who commit crimes regularly go back to crime scenes to relive it, to nourish the memory, to nurture that feeling," Sylvia said playfully. She scrunched her nose in the same manner and said with a mild tease, "Are you incriminating yourself, Mr. Nygma?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Ed replied, although he smiled at her tease. Seriously, he added, "I was there with Harvey Bullock."

"Always a pleasure."

"For you, maybe," Ed said grumpily, rolling his eyes. "The man is a lazy—"

"— _Careful_ , Edward."

He blinked: "What?"

"Think what you want about him, but Harvey is my friend." Sylvia reminded.

Ed said ironically, "Do you defend **me** when he talks badly behind _my_ back?"

"All the time."

"Oh." Ed said, still surprised. "I had no idea."

"Well, now you do. So, you were saying: 'You came back from the crime scene'…?"

"The way the men fell on the ground," Ed explained. "It was as though they were waiting to get shot."

"Who draws the chalk outlines of the dead bodies?" Sylvia asked arbitrarily. "Was that your job or…?"

"That's a Uni's job." Ed answered, crossing his arms plainly as he leaned back against the refrigerator once more.

"Such heavy condescension for a simple answer."

"If Forensics required such a run-of-the-mill skill as drawing outlines of dead people, I would not have taken the position."

"I'm surprised you stayed in Forensics. You took over the Medical Examiner's lab so many times, I would have thought the Captain would just push you into that role."

"You mean 'Barnes'…?"

"I meant Captain Essen. Sarah."

Ed and Sylvia shared a sad but nostalgic expression. Those days when Sarah Essen had still been Captain, even when she had been Commissioner (however brief her term might've been), there had been some good times back then. Back when Barbara was just breaking out of Arkham; Ed was still working as his old quirky self; Jim wasn't nearly as cynical…

"Seems like such a long time," Sylvia said quietly.

"A _very_ long time."

"Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes." Ed admitted. "But I didn't know who I was back then. I'm happier now, personally."

"Good to hear."

"Do you miss those days?"

"From time to time." Sylvia confessed, smiling guiltily. "But it's like you said. I'm happier now as well."

The heartwarming moment spilled into silence and the two of them passed it over once they heard the clapping from the Meeting Room; the congratulations and admiration echoing from the news reporters who wanted a picture of Butch and Oswald for tomorrow's headlines; a quick shot of the last Red Hood's headwear before the evening news came out.

Sylvia gazed in the direction of the room with fondness, but noticed that Ed looked less than impressed with how the afternoon had turned out. Frankly, she had the same sentiment; although, she was more disappointed than anything. Frankly, she said, "So, you don't think the Red Hoods are all dead?"

"Oh, no, I believe that they've most likely been exterminated."

"And they're dead because they went against Oz. There's your 'why'. You've got the 'how' and 'where', 'when'…What are you so unhappy about, again?"

"Hmm," He hummed. He stepped towards her purposely, saying, "I want to know _who_."

"The Red Hoods were a bunch of nobodies. They're the 'who's'."

"I doubt they were smart enough to do all of this by themselves."

"Maybe they orchestrated such a lavish scheme just to gatecrash."

"I think it's more than that."

"What do you mean?"

"These people, as you mentioned before, were no one. They didn't have a stake or a claim to anything that might have affected Oswald: why would they care if the statue was destroyed. Why would these people band together just to kill a priest, and break inside the Merc with no other objective than to startle Oswald?"

"Personally, I think you're thinking too much about this," Sylvia said, shrugging. "Random acts of violence happen all the time. It's Gotham for god's sake. I mean, these are the same people who had nothing better to do with their time than go after symbols of Oswald's pride and joy: his mother, the Merc, which was basically his armory, and—"

"—You—"

" _Excuse me_?"

"You."

"I am _not_ behind these jackasses—"

"Of course not! I'm not saying you are. If the Red Hoods had never been eliminated," Ed said darkly, "I imagine that they'd have tried to come after you next. You mentioned the 'symbols' of his pride and joy. I care to presume you're one of them."

Sylvia scoffed, "Don't be ridiculous."

"How am I being ridiculous? You know what makes Oswald strong, and where he is weak. You know where his safehouses are—or at least, I assume you do—and you're one of his most valuable assets. You can't be bought by riches or anything of marketable value, at least…"

"I'm a weapon." Sylvia said confidently. She drank the rest of her tea, adding, "I'm fit as a fiddle, cryptic as a riddle, and if someone wants to test my sadism, I say 'have at thee'. I agree, though, with what you're saying: I _know_ I mean a lot to Oz: I think everyone knows that. Regardless, I doubt that any of the Red Hoods would come within a herculean inch near me before I blew their brains out."

"I don't mean to criticize, but they already have," Ed reminded. "At the press release when Gertrud's statue was unveiled. They practically put a gun to your head."

"And?" Sylvia said snidely, "I would have cut off their heads."

"Why didn't you?"

"They aimed a gun at you, at Oswald, and at my daughter."

"And you as well."

"I don't care about myself," Sylvia stated as though she was less than aware of her own personal sacrifice. "The only reason I put down my gun was because I was outnumbered. If the situation had been different, I'd have shot them all until they looked like jelly doughnuts run over by a truck."

"Basically, you're telling me that the best way to get inside your head is to threaten your family and friends."

"I'm not the only one like that."

"No, that's true. But I can certainly see why it would be tempting to try."

Sylvia stared at him, saying carefully, "If the Red Hoods are not dead, and you believe they'll be threatening _me_ next, then I suggest we bait them. Have the rest of them who are lurking underground reveal themselves. Preferably before the party: I've been looking forward to seeing who Barbara hired for the entertainment."

Ed sighed, looking up at the ceiling for a prayer. Tactfully, he said, "Sylvia. What you're saying is for you to be used as bait to lure the rest of them out of hiding…"

"…So that we can be done with this," She finished. " _Yes_ , that is what I'm saying. You heard me the first time."

"I hate admitting it, but it sounds like a really good idea."

"Well, a compliment on my intelligence. Color me flattered."

Unabashed, Ed returned smoothly, "Complimenting your intelligence isn't difficult for me. You have plenty of it."

"You're flirting again."

"Perhaps I am."

"Now, see, if you were ever this charming with Kristen, you might've won her over a lot sooner."

"By that logic, I would have killed her sooner."

"Perhaps," Sylvia said, smirking. "But then again, if that were the case, you'd have figured out who you were a lot sooner too. From the sound of it, I doubt you could have refused that circumstance."

"You might have a point."

As quickly, Sylvia asked seriously, "So you think the Red Hoods are still out there? That there might be more?"

"Not so much as there are 'more' as much as 'it's not over, yet'. And I can assure you with one-hundred percent of my absolute confidence that it isn't."

"What are you willing to bet?"

"I don't like to gamble."

"So, you're saying you're not confident at all."

"I never said that."

"It's a game, Nygma. What would you be willing to bet that the tale of the Red Hoods is not over?"

Ed said without hesitation, "I'd risk lowering my IQ by ten points if I am wrong."

"High stakes for a man who doesn't gamble."

"I never said I 'didn't' gamble. I said I prefer not to."

Sylvia smiled, saying, "So, then, what do you propose? A stakeout outside of the Siren's club? A short trip to the GCPD?"

Ed didn't say what he wanted to say. He was tempted to, though. Instead, he cleared his throat intentionally and Sylvia looked at him curiously. There was a beat drop, in such a way that made the two of them perceive the other's intentions. Ed took Sylvia's hand in his, and the gesture made her look at him more carefully, out of suspicion perhaps.

"At this party, I'd like you to be safe. Be aware." Ed told her.

"I'm always careful."

"More so than usual."

"Fine." Sylvia said, shrugging. "I'll be more careful than usual."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

After a moment of silence passed, Sylvia looked him over and asked, "Is that a new suit?"

"Yes, it is!"

"I like it."

"Do you, really?"

"Green is definitely your color." Sylvia noted, smiling at him. "It has a certain jovial appeal. Matches your quirky sense of humor."

"Thank you." Ed said, flattered. He then took in her over all appearance: she'd changed her clothes after coming back to the mansion: a knee-length black cocktail dress; fishnet, fingerless gloves that were pulled to the middle of her elbows. She wore no stockings, but her legs were tanned from running outside during her usual exercise regimen.

"You look good too." Ed said, gesturing to her outfit.

"Do I?" Sylvia responded coyly.

"Very…Very Rubenesque."

Sylvia smirked saying, "Oh, now I know you're flirting with me."

"In my defense, it would have been a missed opportunity if I didn't." Ed returned charmingly.

A moment of silence passed between them again. Suddenly, Sylvia grinned and said, "Speaking of old times…"

Ed blinked and said pointedly, "That's not exactly a 'speaking of which'. We spoke of old times, but that conversation had long since passed."

Ignoring his logical observation, Sylvia said with a subtle smirk, "Remember when I used to come to the GCPD to visit Jim and whenever you and I met, we would exchange riddles?"

A familiar grin met Ed's eyes as he returned, "I _do_. Are you saying you have one?"

"Perhaps. If you don't mind hearing it."

"As long as you don't mind that I already have an answer for you."

"Do you want to hear it or not?"

"Lay it on me."

"'When you do not know what I am, then I am something. But when you know what I am, then I am nothing. What am I?'"

"You are a riddle." Ed answered.

"Aren't I?"

"No, that was the answer."

"I know," Sylvia said with a knowing grin. "I just wanted to hear you give me another compliment. Do you have one ready for me?"

"You know I do."

"Tell me."

"You'll appreciate this, if I know your dark sense of humor."

Sylvia said mischievously, "Well, now you _have_ to tell me."

"Here it is, then: 'There is a dead man in the middle of a field, nothing is around him. There are no footprints of any sort. There's an unopened package next to him. What was the cause of his death?'"

Sylvia gave it a moment's thought and then she started giggling. Ed grinned, knowing she knew the answer.

"His parachute failed." Sylvia said with a raucous giggle.

"Exactly!"

Their playful back-and-forth was momentarily interrupted as Victor Zsasz sauntered into the room. Seeing the gallon of tea sitting on the counter, he helped himself; only after having poured himself a glass, he had cared to notice Ed and Sylvia standing there, talking. He grinned at the both of them, saying, "What's up!"

"Not much," Ed returned. He glanced casually at the hitman before he told Sylvia, "I'm going to get the Mayor's schedule ready for next week. Those meetings can be brutal."

"No doubt," Sylvia said. She grinned politely when he left her side. She turned to look at Victor, who had been watching her with a smirk. "What?"

Innocently, he responded: "Nothing."

Sylvia poured herself a third glass of tea, wordlessly taking a sip. Victor stood, his hands on the straps of his holster vest as he watched her like a hawk. Curious to his behavior, Sylvia looked at him questionably.

"So how disappointed are you that we didn't get to waste those Hoods?" He asked knowingly.

"Damn, you've been waiting to ask me _that_ question, haven't you?"

"Since we got back."

"Well, to answer your question: Very."

"So much for going in and not sharing. Who knew that when it came to killing, you'd have to give it up for someone like Gilzean? I didn't see that coming."

"Who would have."

Victor said sweetly, "Don't worry, Kiddo. We still have Dolores Reese this weekend."

"Yeah, sure, but there's something about a mass genocide that is still so profitable."

"We wouldn't have made any money from this."

"Profit in happiness points."

Victor said impishly, "So, what's going on between you and Mr. Chief of Staff."

"Nothing is going on between us."

"You two seemed pretty chummy in here together. All _alone_."

"We're just friends. It's just like you and me."

"Oh, I see."

Sylvia said defensively, " _What_ do you see?"

"You've been cheating on me, Liv. Found yourself another Work-Husband." Victor joked. "And here I thought we had something special. I guess I could have seen it coming. He's the Mayor's Chief of Staff and you're _Penguin's_ Chief of Staff."

"That's perverted."

"Well, look who we're talking about here."

She sent him a sideways glance and muttered, "Point taken."

"Is it the intelligence?"

"What is?"

"You have a type." Victor said, poking her playfully in the shoulder. "I thought you might have been more for the 'tall, dark, and mysterious'. I figured that's where I come in, but you like 'em nerdy and smart with a side of confidence."

Sylvia put her glass in the kitchen sink, turning to Victor, saying, "I don't have a type."

" _Criminals_ are your type. Personally, I'm flattered."

"Fuck off, Victor." She warned, but she smiled in spite of herself.

"I love you, Kiddo. But we both know my love for you is purely platonic."

"Thank god for that."

"Are your plans still open for the weekend?"

"You know they are."

"How did you want to go about getting Reese?"

"Kidnap and torture," Sylvia answered nonchalantly.

"Feeling generous these days?" Victor commented.

"Well, the Red Hoods are gone; Oswald's having his mayoral party tonight, and I'm feeling pretty hopeful."

"Did you ever find that kid? Mario's kid?"

"No," said Sylvia sadly. "I don't know what happened to her."

"Did Jim find anything out?"

"Nothing worth mentioning. Some random woman was wearing Ivy's sweater but nothing else came from the investigation. Came up with nothing."

"I guess that was worth the five G's, huh?"

"Jim helped me out. He deserved it."

"Funny how he needs money to do you a favor but you don't ever ask for anything in return," Victor said shallowly.

"It's one of my least profitable traits, unfortunately." Sylvia said crassly. "And before you lay into my brother about his efforts, _you_ didn't find anything either, just so we're clear."

"In my defense, I didn't really look. Kids are always disappearing in Gotham. She's no different."

"She's _very_ different." Sylvia said crossly. She poked Victor hard in the chest, adding, "You didn't know her so you don't get to talk about her like that."

He recognized that tone and Victor held up his hand apologetically.

"I guessing you'll be pretty drunk by the end of this party," He assumed, gesturing to her.

"How you figure that?"

"Demetri's watching your kid, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You don't have any meetings for the rest of the day?"

"None."

"So, you're going to get drunk tonight."

Sylvia smirked asking, "If you're trying to weasel your way into my inebriated shenanigans, Victor, you don't have to compromise your honor: you can just ask."

"I'd love to ask," Victor said with a sly grin of his own. "But I love our friendship and I'm afraid if I asked, you might say 'yes'."

Sylvia snickered, "Looking out for me, huh?"

"You know how I feel about you, Kiddo."

"The feeling's mutual. Love you, work-hubby."

Victor took her hand, and kissed the back of it.

Pleased, Sylvia smiled at him. Victor politely excused himself and left the room. Sylvia considered getting another glass of tea but after having three already, she decided to go to the bathroom instead.


	12. A Familiar Stranger

**Chapter Twelve** : A Familiar Stranger

 **Author's Note** : To the Guest(s) that have left reviews for this story, I'm grateful and so appreciative of them. I'd have replied to each of them, but I'm unable to (for whatever reason). I just wanted you all to know that I love hearing from you all. And to answer your question: Yes, this story of mine is going all the way to _No Man's Land_. It'll be fun!

* * *

Butch accompanied Sylvia, Oswald, and Ed to the Sirens' party. Upon their arrival, waiters and waitresses wearing black-on-white tuxedos and dresses approached them with platters of champagne; Butch declined, but the other three took a glass, thanking the staff.

Oswald had dressed to his best in a deep sapphire three-piece suit; Ed, in his emerald suit; Sylvia, in her black cocktail dress, cut off just above her knees.

Her usual ginger waves that would have normally been pulled up into a high pony tail lied over her shoulders and down her back in teased curls. After drinking from the glass which she had taken from the waiter, she pulled the stranger to the side and asked coyly, "How does my lipstick look?"

The waiter glanced over her lips briefly and shrugged, uttering uncertainly, "I think it looks okay…" He quickly left her side, looking over his shoulder, uncomfortable.

Both Oswald and Ed looked at her inquisitively.

"What?" Sylvia asked innocently. "It's not exactly a 16-hour stain, you know."

"I wouldn't know." Ed murmured as he peered up at the ceiling, trying not to roll his eyes.

"Oz…?"

Oswald legitimately looked her over and wordlessly he ever so gently placed his forefinger just along the top of her upper lip and lightly rubbed so what smudges the glass might have left were now erased. Sylvia smiled knowingly at him.

" _Merci_ , _Monsieur Penguin_." She mewed graciously.

" _Pas de quoi_ ," Oswald returned.

Ed glanced between them curiously when Sylvia said, " _Sans toi, Oz, j'aurais valsé autour du club comme un clown pour le reste de la nuit._ "

"Don't be ridiculous," Oswald scoffed. "You could wear all the makeup in the world but you would never get close to looking like a clown."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Not in the slightest. Your French is getting better," Oswald noted, looking at her proudly.

"I had a good teacher." Sylvia said, winking at him. She looked around and added, "Lot of guests came."

"To partake in the drinks and merriment, obviously."

"I wouldn't say _that_ ," Ed interjected, earning a curious look from both Oswald and Sylvia, who smiled as Ed continued, "I'd say half of the guests came, knowing who the celebrated guest would be."

"Not to cattle prod your compliment, Ed, but The Sirens club makes a lot of money as a whole," Sylvia reminded. "Not everyone here is a guest."

"I thought it was a closed invitation."

"It _was_ , but this is Gotham. People can gatecrash all they want. There are only so many guards who can do their job in this town."

"Be careful," Oswald uttered playfully. "You're starting to sound cynical."

"Because I'm a stranger to cynicism," Sylvia responded almost immediately, smirking. "Who isn't cynical?"

Ed raised his hand jokingly, saying, "Me? I'm not cynical."

Oswald and Sylvia responded, with knowing but amused expressions: "Yet."

Ed looked at them both, taken aback, but he registered the joke fairly enough. More people started coming into the crowd and it appeared to be a successful turnout—regardless if some of the guests happened to be stand-ins or unaware passerby Regulars of the Sirens Club.

"Sweetheart."

Oswald turned his attention from the flow of people to his beloved: "Yes, dear?"

Sylvia moved closer to him. He smiled when she leaned in and gently kissed his cheek.

"I have every intention of getting _very_ drunk tonight." Sylvia told him with a grin. "Any objections to that?"

"Of course not. Drink away, darling." Oswald answered. As an afterthought, he touched his cheek from where she'd kissed him and asked, "Did any…?"

"No. I didn't leave a mark." Sylvia answered dutifully. "Plus, this" (She gestured to her lips) "has _no_ transference what so ever. I didn't even leave a mark on the glass, see…" (She held up the glass indicatively.) "Rest assured, if I wanted to leave my mark on you, I could."

"If there's no transference, I doubt you could have."

"True, but I have other ways of marking you, Pet."

Oswald's eyebrows quirked upwards at her dangerous sultry tone. Instead of commenting on it, he decided to put that response on the back burner for another night. Rarely did she ever call _him_ 'Pet' but when she did, it was normally a cue for what she might want later in the evening. He might be in a world of submission when it came to that transaction.

To change the subject, Sylvia assumed, "I'm guessing you'll be moving about, talking to people…?"

"You know the answer to that." Oswald told her as he finished his glass of champagne. He waited for a waiter to pass by and he placed the empty glass on the platter with another thank you.

Sylvia grinned: "You might want to start now if you want to meet everyone."

"Point taken."

Oswald kissed Sylvia's cheek and then he left to do as they'd discussed.

"Everyone wants to be seen and heard by Mr. Mayor," Sylvia chuckled, smirking at Ed as she watched Oswald start his meet-and-greet with the guests who had come to his party. "But when it comes to Penguin, they're grateful not to be summoned."

"Same person, different hat." Ed said shortly as he offered his arm to her. She took it, linking their arms together.

"Oswald in the Mayor's seat is just as powerful when he's sitting at the head of the table."

"Fair point: Same person, different hat, same power. "

"I should be happy for him, but I'm internally jealous."

Ed's eyebrows quirked at her confession and he asked, "Because he's receiving all the attention for being Mayor?"

"What? No, not that. That the people he talks to get to have his attention."

"You _have_ his attention."

"When he's talking to me and not them, you mean."

"No," Ed said ironically. "Just because he's talking to everyone else doesn't mean his attention towards you has been divided."

"And you know this how?"

"You distract a man effortlessly."

Sylvia looked at him, realizing his point. Unabashed, she grinned.

Ed added as an afterthought, "He seems to be more comfortable with our friendship. Less suspicious."

"Seems to be." She agreed. "With good reason."

"I wonder why that is."

"Simple: He trusts you."

Ed sent her a curious look, disarmed.

She didn't comment further on her statement. Instead, she added, "He seems to be fond of Demetri too…"

"Oh yes. _Him_."

Sylvia's eyebrow quirked upwards at his hostile tone.

Ed smiled apologetically but he spoke just as sternly, "I've had my own suspicions."

"You think he's a traitor as well?"

" _Everyone_ has the potential to become a traitor," Ed told her as he and Sylvia walked towards the direction of the bar. "You, me, and everyone in this room." He gestured to the names stated, respectively. "Very few are able to turn traitor and live to see another day. At least in this town. It's actually a miracle…"

As a point, he grumbled, "The stray should be so lucky."

"' _Stray'_? You've been talking to Oswald about this, haven't you?"

"Does it show?"

"Oh, it certainly does." Sylvia replied, rolling her eyes playfully. "Only Oswald calls him a 'stray'. You've picked up on his vocabulary: how sweet. As it is, Demetri's loyalty was a hot button issue for the longest time."

"One could understand why."

"I'm not arguing that. I mean, sure, there have been a few moments where I thought I might have made a mistake, but he's been loyal…since he opened his arm for me."

"You don't have a single doubt in your mind that he would turn on you?"

"None whatsoever."

"And your nightmares?"

"It's like you said, Ed. I was having those dreams because I was stressed out." Sylvia replied logically. She added, "And things have changed now. Plus, if either I or Oswald had any doubts about his loyalty, neither of us would have placed our daughter in Demetri's care for the night."

"I'd have had more peace of mind if she'd been placed with Gabriel."

"Gabriel doesn't have the same tenderness as Demetri."

"He doesn't possess the same catalyst for suspicion as Demetri either."

"Demetri wouldn't hurt a fly, never the less, our daughter."

"That doesn't make a difference," Ed argued.

"I called the manor just before we left. Csilla's doing well; Demetri just put her to bed."

"That's not my point."

"Then what _is_ your point?"

"If he wanted to hurt your daughter, he wouldn't have done anything tonight anyway."

"Why is that?"

"He isn't alone," Ed responded morbidly. "Gabriel is there. So are the other guards. _Your_ people, included. If he tried hurting her, he would not be able to step a foot out of the mansion before they killed him on the spot."

"Fair point," said Sylvia, nodding. "But I still believe Demetri has changed his ways. He's sweet and sincere; he's genuine. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who's genuinely sweet and sincere?"

"The only two people I've known to be charitable without expecting anything in return are you and Oswald."

"That's sweet. Thank you for that, but I still think you're wrong about Demetri."

"Say what you want, Liv. Think what you may, but I have my own reservations about him."

"What, you don't trust my judgement?"

"I think you're a charitable person. Charitable, generous—sensible, at the most. But—and I mean this with no disrespect—I trust your rage a great deal more than I would trust your judgement. At least when you're angry, you have tunnel vision: that keeps you from getting distracted by whatever else that could otherwise obscure it."

"Oh, how nice. An insult slathered in compliments and sweetness." Sylvia said, smirking when Ed glanced at her apologetically. "You've been hanging around Oswald for far too long, Mr. Riddles."

As they approached the counter, a bartender was there, waiting to take their orders. Sylvia, being the independent, strong-willed woman that she was stepped forward and, without asking, ordered herself a whiskey on the rocks, and a Grasshopper for Ed, who peered at her curiously when she did.

Sylvia sat on a stool with Ed sitting on the one beside her.

"I ordered yours," She said, gesturing to the mint green drink that the bartender placed in front of Ed. "I hope you don't find that emasculating."

"Not at all."

"So why do you look surprised?"

Ed held up the drink by the neck: "How did you know I drank this?"

"It's what you had in your hand the last time I saw you drink," Sylvia answered nonchalantly.

"That was over ten months ago."

"I know," She chuckled. "I remember that, but I couldn't tell you what I had for dinner two nights ago."

Ed laughed, "The memory is a fickle thing."

"Very fucking fickle. Ooh!" She said excitedly, "Try saying _that_ five times fast."

He and Sylvia took a drink from their chosen glasses and proceeded to take in the atmosphere.

A disco strobe gave the club its dizzy but invigorating feel. Blue and violet lights strung in front of the fluorescence made the club a bit darker and more ocean-like. The music, to Sylvia's satisfaction, featured a band of men who sang a lot better than the amateurs Barbara had originally hired.

There were _several_ people here and that alone was an understatement. While they were not exactly elbow-to-elbow, the considerable amount of people in one room proved to be a hardship if one did not like to be coerced into conversation. The air would become dense in time: people would start getting hot under the collar, and presumably, a fight would break out if the temperature became too much.

Ed chortled, pointing over Sylvia's shoulder, "Apparently, Bruce Wayne received his invitation."

Sylvia looked over her shoulder to see Oswald conversing with Bruce and his butler, Alfred Pennyworth. They seemed civil enough; the last time the three of them had been in one placement together was back when Galavan was getting blown up by a bazooka. Of course, Sylvia had since then met with Bruce and Alfred about finding any leads with Ivy's unsettling disappearance. She'd gotten more from Jim than she'd gotten from Bruce: Not that it was his fault to begin with.

Even now, Ivy's disappearance disturbed her.

"Anything else?" The bartender asked, stepping forward to address her and Ed.

"Another, please." Sylvia said sweetly, pointing to her empty whiskey. It would be her third shot, but she was doing her best not to count them.

She placed a bill on the counter but the bartender immediately pushed it back towards her.

"No disrespect, Lark, but your money's no good here." The bartender said with a smile. "Compliments on the House, per Miss Kean."

As the bartender moved away to make another drink, Ed said, "I'm not the only one who holds a certain fondness for you. Am I?"

"You've guessed it."

Sylvia looked up at the ceiling lights, noticing that the colors shifted from an ocean blue to that of an indigo; it was almost mesmerizing. It had a hypnotic way of being there…or maybe the whiskey shots had been a little stronger than she had predicted.

Sylvia looked at her companion and with a deviant smile, asked him: "Do you want to dance with me, Ed?"

"More than I care to admit," He returned, "but I think I will sit here, instead."

"So, what: you're just going to watch?"

"Presumably so."

"You're a killjoy, Riddles."

"Well, I believe consistency is key."

"Now you've got jokes. You're funny." Sylvia snickered. She stood to her feet, bracing herself against the counter for only a minute before she straightened to her full height. "Sounds like the 'entertainment' decided to take an intermission."

Ed glanced over to the stage. Sure enough, the music had been fairly quiet, and now there was none.

"I'm going to see what's going on."

"You're going to mingle?"

"I'm going to mingle." She confirmed.

"Mingle away," Ed returned, lifting his drink to her in cheers. "I'm going to look into something."

Sylvia watched his eyes move above her shoulder. His own had flickered with suspicion; she turned her head, following his gaze to that of Butch Gilzean who was edging around the club, standing too close to the wall with an odd expression on his face…like he was hyper vigilant about something.

"Ed?"

"Don't worry, Liv."

"Where are you going?"

Ed took one last drink from the glass, placing it on the bar counter's surface and said cleverly, "I'm going to _mingle_."

"Mingle away," Sylvia said, waving at him. He waved back and decidedly left, walking in the direction where Butch was standing; his stride was different: not his usual strut, but he strode with a purpose, as though Ed had been _waiting_ to confront Butch about…well, about whatever it was that Ed had on his agenda.

Sylvia didn't pay much attention. How could she? The whiskey waves were rippling and rolling pleasantly through her blood stream; a thrilling dizziness tickled the logical side of her brain and she became more sensitive to the flashing strobing lights.

There was obvious chatter happening around her—not that Sylvia could understand half of it. While she hadn't taken more than a few shots of Whiskey in the past twenty minutes, it was hitting her harder than to what she was accustomed. Sylvia chuckled more to herself than anyone else and said challengingly, "Daddy didn't raise no light weight."

Precariously, Sylvia tagged a waiter, thanked him for the glass of champagne and she headed towards the stage where the rag tag band stood who had been playing what sounded like jazz and a little piano.

"What do you call yourselves again?" Sylvia asked the band members.

"' _Anges Musicaux_ '," answered their team lead.

"What are you, French?" She asked after taking a sip from her glass.

" _Oui_." He answered smartly.

"You call yourself 'Musical Angels'. But you and your music sounded familiar. Did you used to be called something else?"

"' _Amoureux Unhibited_ '. Used to be, anyway."

"How many of you are there?"

"Five in total."

"What about before?"

"Six."

"The other guy couldn't hack it, huh?"

The band members aside from the leader appeared annoyed by her interjection, but the band leader seemed more amused. He shook his head in agreement with her statement; a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Looks like you're all married," Sylvia said, gesturing to the wedding bands on all five men's hands. "I guess it's fitting you changed your band name. Not exactly 'uninhibited' if you're already hitched. I'm guessing the sixth guy didn't like the name change?"

"You guessed right, Madame."

"Was he single?"

"Yeah."

"Sounds about right," Sylvia giggled.

The lead chuckled in good humor; he handed his guitar off to another band member, then he hopped off the stage in one leap. He straightened to his full height.

She drank the rest of her champagne and as she did, the band leader said, "You look familiar."

"I'm the new Mayor's wife," Sylvia answered.

The band leader shrugged, confused.

"Penguin's wife?" She offered knowingly.

" _OH!_ You're the Lark!?"

"That's me!" She said with a wide grin.

"Miss Kean said you recommended us, said we came highly recommended by 'the Lark'. I didn't know it was _you_!"

"That's what happens when you get out of Gotham. You lose your memos."

"It's just funny because we thought you hated us. You wouldn't let us play in your club."

"Well, you guys sucked. Your pianist couldn't hit the keys right. I'm assuming he was your sixth man?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Firing him seems like one of the best decisions you've ever made, Band Lead."

"It certainly has helped us climb the ladder."

"Good to hear."

"I'm happy you recommended us to play here."

"You _were_ on the list of people who hadn't made such a huge fool of themselves. I didn't realize you guys were the 'Uninhibited Lovers'. Good idea. Changing the name, I mean."

"Well, you helped pay our way," The band leader said gratefully. He held out his hand again: "Robert."

"Sylvia." She returned, shaking it. "A little advice: this is the longest intermission ever, so you might want to play some music, fellas. Otherwise, you're going to lose your audience."

That said, the leader returned to his group on the stage and started playing more music. It wasn't anything she could turn her nose up at. Regardless of her feelings, the crowd seemed to sway and get into the rhythm and dance, so really, she couldn't complain.

As the party continued, Sylvia took one champagne glass after another, she leaned against the bar counter, the link closest to the center stage, smiling when a handsome older gentleman approached her.

His hair was grayed, his skin a little wrinkly but despite that, his eyes had a certain youthful energy. Maybe he'd worked his entire life to get where he was and despite the time it had taken him, he was enjoying every moment of it. When he offered her a small glass of brown amber liquid, Sylvia took it, but then shortly after, she gave it to the bartender to throw out.

"I'm not taking any chances with this crowd," Sylvia whispered.

" _There are worse people that could buy you a drink."_

Ironically enough, Sylvia recognized the tone but not the voice. She turned towards the direction of it to see that its owner appeared to be prettier than she expected. It was a woman in her twenties, redheaded, and wearing a dress of the deepest emerald green she'd ever seen. Like a model, the woman appeared by Sylvia's side, looking at her in such a familiar way.

"That's true," Sylvia commended. "They can buy me drinks all day—doesn't mean I'll drink all of them."

The woman chuckled, "Don't worry. He's harmless."

"Says _you_." Sylvia uttered. She glanced at the man who seemed to have disappeared but regardless, she didn't feel threatened. She returned her gaze back to the mysterious woman, asking, "Was he your date?"

She replied mischievously, "Yes, he is. _One_ of them."

"I hope he's giving you something in return for your company that's not in the form of money," Sylvia said cautiously.

The woman sent her a confused look.

She poked a finger in that direction, explaining, "A man that age deserves to be given a trophy and a medal for acquiring the company of a woman as pretty as you."

The woman cracked an energetic grin: "You've not changed at all. Have you, Lark? Still charming. Still cynical."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side asking, "I'm sorry. Have we met before?"

"A few times."

"Well, I'm embarrassed."

The woman said apologetically, "Why?"

"I'd have remembered someone like you," Sylvia said, gesturing to her.

"Well, I've changed a lot since the last time we met."

"Must have been quite the change, then. Did you grow up in Gotham?"

"Born and raised."

"Still talk to your parents?"

"My parents died when I was really young."

"I'd say I'm sorry for your loss," Sylvia said lightly, "but I don't know you well enough."

"Don't worry. I mean, it was sad, but I got over it."

"Did they die peacefully?"

The woman said with a dark chuckle, "Not at all."

"Well, I wouldn't expect much from Gotham." Sylvia told her. "It's wrought with peril. Deaths…"

"And stupid men," The woman added with a playful giggle. She touched Sylvia's shoulder, adding, "I'll talk to you later."

"Sure thing." Sylvia said, nodding. Only when the woman had gone did she realize that she never had gotten that beautiful young lady's name. Well, one thing was for sure, she wouldn't be forgetting _that_ face.

* * *

 **Author's Foot Note** :

 **In French** : " _Sans toi, Oz, j'aurais valsé autour du club comme un clown pour le reste de la nuit._ "

 **In English** : "If not for you, Oz, I would have waltzed around the club like a clown for the rest of the night."


	13. A Dance With The Butler

Chapter Thirteen: A Dance with the Butler

* * *

Five shots of whiskey and four glasses of champagne into the evening, Sylvia was surprisingly alert. The walls were a little blurry; the music, just slightly garbled. Otherwise, she felt only mildly uninhibited.

She passed through the crowd, doing as she learned to do from being around Oswald Cobblepot for so long: she worked the crowd, talking and mingling, shaking hands, and having hers kissed by people she either couldn't remember meeting or meeting them now and knowing she'd forget having met them tonight.

"Oh, so we meet again!" Sylvia jested, smirking as Alfred Pennyworth turned to look at her.

"Mrs. Cobblepot! Well, I guess I shouldn't be so surprised," Alfred responded jovially. "A party for the Mayor certainly isn't one without you, is it?"

"I guess it wouldn't be. Where's Bruce?"

"Out on the roof," said Alfred, gesturing to the ceiling above.

"Why, does he like star gazing?"

"I wish he did. He'd be easier to track."

"So, it's a girl, then?"

"Of course. At his age…"

"Yes, I imagine that's all he'd be thinking about," Sylvia considered, smiling. "I bet I could guess who he's most likely talking to."

"I bet you could," Alfred returned flirtatiously. "So, you can understand—although as tempting as it might be—why I wouldn't take that bet."

Sylvia chuckled. She drank the rest of her champagne, and, for the last time, placed the glass on a platter of a passing waitress. The waitress offered her another and Sylvia politely declined. Alfred's face grew inquisitive.

"I've had all I can drink tonight," Sylvia explained, throwing her hands in the air with exasperated delight. "Phew! You know?"

The band on stage started playing a slow musical number.

"I'd hate to take advantage," Alfred offered, "but it would be a missed opportunity if I didn't: Would you care to dance?"

"Oh, by all means: Take advantage." Sylvia teased, grinning widely. "I'm a little drunk, is all. So, don't be surprised if I step on your toes."

"I doubt it would hurt. You're a light one."

Alfred offered his hand; she took it, and when she did, he twirled her around, pulling a surprised gasp from her. With his hand above her waist and her hand on his shoulder, Sylvia and Alfred slow danced on the spot. There were a couple fancy twirls, sure-footed whirls, and Alfred was grinning from ear-to-ear as he impressed her with his performance.

"You're quite the dancer," Sylvia noted.

"I'm not as spry as I once was when I was younger, but I daresay, I've still got it."

"I can attest to that."

"I have to say though, I'm impressed."

"With what, Alfred?"

"Well, if you drank as much as you say you did, I'm surprised you can keep up."

Sylvia snickered, "I was drunk for a lot of my teen years: it's an acquired skill, trust me. You learn to do things by muscle memory more than from your _actual_ memory."

"I'd say it's a talent."

"It's a fucking burden."

"Oh?"

"Well, it's like going into math class, yeah?" Sylvia said, giggling soon after when he tipped her back and then tilted her up so she could put both feet on the ground. "When you walk into math and show you're smart, everyone wants your help—homework, reading—and before you know it, you're tutoring the whole semester. And it doesn't end there!"

"I suppose I can understand that."

"But if you go into math class, showing you don't know what the fuck you're doing, no one tries to ask you for shit."

"That can be a relief, I'm sure."

"I wouldn't know," Sylvia said cynically. She twirled once more, adding, "I was the fucking idiot that showed up, impressing people with my intellect."

"In Math?"

"Well, no, not in math. My interest lied more in anatomy and dissecting animals," She snickered. "Point being: I can do a lot when I'm drunk. Dancing is only one of them."

"I could see why that would be a burden."

"It's a real kick in the crotch." Sylvia agreed.

Alfred smiled when the song ended. He took her hand in his, kissed the back and said graciously, "Thank you for the dance, my lady."

"I'm flattered."

"I'm enchanted," He responded.

"Wonderful!"

"I best fetch Master Bruce," Alfred said, politely excusing himself. "God only knows what he and Miss Kyle have decided to get into while they've been alone."

"Best case scenario, they're just having a romp sesh upstairs." Sylvia offered optimistically. "Worst case: They're robbing a bank."

"I'm not sure which is more comforting."

"Well, in hind sight, Alfred: the bank robbing would be easiest to stop."

Alfred exhaled deeply with wide eyes as he quickly hurried to the roof to fetch Bruce with Sylvia looking after him with a devious smile on her face.


	14. Proven Loyalties

Chapter Fourteen: Proven Loyalties

* * *

Barbara Kean shooed the band off the stage and basked in the lime light, taking the microphone and welcoming everyone to the _Sirens_. Sylvia meandered through the crowd, finding Oswald awaiting his cue to head on stage.

"This is a nice turn-out," Sylvia told him, smirking when Oswald slightly jumped when her sultry tone hit his ear.

She nearly lost her balance and she held onto her husband for support and he caught her. He looked her over briefly, smiling only when she balanced herself without his help.

"The lights were a nice touch, don't you think?" Sylvia asked, looking up at the ceiling. Her eyes were glazed over with content as she stared at the lights, momentarily getting blinded before she met Oswald's gaze with a distracted one. "Maybe I should get one of them…one of these to put in my club. What do you think? Is that…Do you think that's doable?"

Oswald snickered. He couldn't help himself. It had been a while since he saw Sylvia drunk, never the less slightly slurring her words. He'd forgotten how entertaining she could be when she was inebriated.

"It _is_ doable," Oswald answered her question.

"Mm," She giggled. " _You're_ more than doable."

"Sit down, Pigeon."

"I'll sit down if it's you I'll be sitting on. Know what I'm saying? Saying…Saying it without _saying_ it."

"I'm well aware." Oswald reassured. He gently moved her to the bar counter, pulling out a stool and encouraging her to sit on it.

As he coaxed her to do as he asked, Ed came up from behind him. Oswald looked at him, saying, "Where have you been? I've been looking for you all evening."

"He's been…." Sylvia giggled, "He's been 'looking into something'. Haven't—Haven't you, Mr. Riddles? Like…Like 'riddle me this': What's green, red, and slightly crispy?"

Ed and Oswald looked at her expectantly. She answered: "A burnt Christmas tree! _Hehehehe_!"

Ignoring her, Ed said, "I've just been tying up loose ends."

"Loose ends? They're loose as a goose on a noose," Sylvia snickered, looking up at Oswald. She grabbed the lapel of his jacket, pulling him towards her and she added, "Honestly, baby, sweetie, darling, _dear_ , I'm pretty sure I'm loose enough for the both of us! _Hehehehe_!"

Ed raised his eyebrows and asked Oswald, "How much did she drink tonight?"

"I couldn't tell you." Oswald sighed, and he fixed his suit where she'd grabbed him. "But I think it's fair to say that she's had enough."

"I can agree to that." Ed said, watching Sylvia lie against the counter so the back of her head was on its surface and she was staring up at the ceiling, entertained by the flickers of color in the strobing lights.

Pointedly, Ed and Oswald exchanged amused expressions, glancing up simultaneously to see what she was seeing, and they both shook their heads, realizing that Sylvia was done in for the night.

"Tonight, we celebrate Oswald Cobblepot," Barbara Kean said sincerely, still standing on the stage. "Our new Mayor, and Captain of our fair city. And now the Mayor would like to say a few words..."

Resounding applause from everyone in the audience, including Sylvia who sat up and clapped loudest of all. As Oswald walked up the stage, Ed remained standing beside Sylvia; if anything, just to make sure she didn't fall over and hit the floor.

"Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed…" Sylvia repeated, gaining his attention.

He looked at her, readily.

"Guess what?" She whispered.

"What?"

"I'm hitting that," Sylvia giggled, pointing to the stage at Oswald.

"I'm more than aware." Ed reassured, smirking at the inebriated state she was in. Honestly, he'd never seen this side of her before.

"You find those loose ends?" She asked, surprisingly coherent.

"I did."

"And did you tie them?"

"They'll be tied in a second."

"If you didn't…If they weren't tied, why are you not tying them _now_?" Sylvia asked confusedly. She almost fell off the stool and Ed caught her, grabbing her shoulder while the imbalanced part of her slumped against his side.

He felt the heat of his face radiate when she grabbed his hip with one hand so she could straighten back up.

"You'll see." Ed anticipated. "Just listen to Oswald."

"No problem there." Sylvia slurred, pointing her eyes to the stage where her husband spoke to the audience.

"This is a celebration, not of my victory, but of Gotham's," He was saying. "This is a new day!"

And just as the audience was about to cheer, a ringing slew of gunfire interrupted the celebratory applause.

A large man wearing the legendary Red Hood stepped forward, holding a Glock, and pointing it at the stage, and he threatened: "I wouldn't celebrate yet, Mr. Mayor. Red Hoods aren't done yet."

Ed left Sylvia's side, hopping onto the stage; he grabbed Oswald, holding him in place.

Oswald protested confusedly, "Ed, what are you doing?"

"WAIT!" Ed shouted.

Before the Red Hood leader pulled the trigger, he said sincerely, "Sorry, Boss."

Oswald gasped, " _Butch_?"

An alarming sound happened, but Oswald was seemingly unharmed. The shot was a blank.

Ed smiled in spite of Oswald's confusion but he was taken aback when Sylvia hopped off the stool, taking off her spiked heel in the process. In less than thirty seconds:

She stabbed Butch in both legs.

Cranked his arm back and broke it.

Grabbed the gun, and smacked him across the head.

The crowd gasped in shock and horror. When Butch tried to stand, Sylvia hit his face with the gun again.

She looked ready to murder him, but Victor Zsasz came from behind her and grabbed her arm, pulling her back. She was about to question his loyalty until Ed started speaking into the microphone.

"The Mayor," Ed said, taking Oswald's shoulder proudly, " _Our_ mayor vowed that all the Red Hoods would be destroyed. And now we have the _real_ leader caught…red-handed."

Per the drinking that she'd done all night, Sylvia was slightly swaying on her feet, but to Oswald and Ed's satisfied surprise, she had been alarmingly alert and quick. Even while drunk, she served to be a wonderful personal body guard. Amidst his own confusion, even Oswald could say he was impressed.

Ed hopped off the stage, approaching Butch; he grabbed Butch's head and said darkly, "You really thought I'd give you real bullets? You are an _idiot_!" He whipped the hood off Butch, revealing to everyone the face of the real leader.

"I'm going to _kill_ you for this!" Oswald shouted furiously.

"You said—" Butch began to tell Ed, but Ed was grinning widely.

"—You think I'd really go against him?" The latter exclaimed incredulously. "You really _are_ a moron."

"You were _in_ on this?" Sylvia hissed, glaring at Ed.

"You can't be mad at _me_ , Liv," Ed reprimanded. "You said you trust Butch—"

"—I said 'on occasion'."

"How much do you trust him now?"

"Shut the fuck up." Sylvia snapped.

Butch began to stand; Sylvia handed the gun to Victor, who took it, and her foot struck straight into Butch's fruits and berries; he grunted, and came right back down.

Oswald came down from the stage; Sylvia yanked Butch's head up from the roots of his hair so he was forced to look up at—what would no doubt be—his former boss.

"After all I have done for you!" He shouted. "I gave you a job!"

"I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING!" Butch bellowed.

"Including his hand," Sylvia murmured, earning a glare from both Oswald and Butch, but she was unaffected.

"I used to be somebody in this town!" Butch said furiously. "Then you! And that sniveling little son-of-a—"

For the insult of his friend, Oswald backhanded Butch and Sylvia, owing the same, slammed Butch's face into the floor and pulled it back up by the roots of his hair. Ed grinned happily at their reactions.

Sylvia nearly fell to the side as she tripped over her feet. Victor tapped her shoulder and she made a move to protest but he insisted; he held his gun waist level at Butch and that relieved her of having to restrain him. Gratefully, Sylvia thanked Victor, who nodded respectfully. She moved towards the stage, her bare feet padding across the cold tile and she made a point to sit on the edge.

Oswald quickly took the stage again and addressed the audience, all of whom were looking on with interest, curiosity, fear, shock, surprise, and everything in between: "I am shocked and grieved that one of my dearest friends has betrayed me. But let it be known that Oswald Cobblepot will prosecute _anyone_ that threatens Gotham!"

Barbara took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket, and cheered: "HEAR, HEAR!"

Victor picked Butch off the floor, saying, "Upsy-Daisy!"

Sylvia asked jokingly, "Do you need help with that, Precious?"

"No, Pumpkin," He returned, smirking. "I can handle it."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

And just as things were getting back to normal, half of the crowd squealed and parted waves as Tabitha strode in and slammed a guy onto the stage, holding a knife in his back.

Barring the crowd's distracting alarm, Butch took hold of Victor and flung him over the bar. He glared at Sylvia, Oswald, and Ed, all of whom were surprised by the turn of events. He started towards Sylvia; in record time, Ed pushed her to the side just as Butch stampeded forward and grabbed Ed's throat instead; pinning him on the stage and having more physical prowess than the man below, Butch said joyfully, " _I'm going to enjoy this_!"

Sylvia staggered to get up. Thrown off by not just Ed's shove but also the alcohol swimming in her head and blood stream.

Just as Ed was passing out from Butch's strangling hold, Oswald grabbed the bottle of champagne from Barbara and smashed it across Butch's head. By that time, Sylvia was on her feet; she stumbled forward, raised Butch's dead weight body above her head and threw him over the counter—eye for an eye for what Butch had done to Victor, who was quickly on his feet and had been ready to return the kindness.

He and his men restrained Butch; Barbara had a clear hold on Tabitha who appeared ready to disembowel both Oswald and Sylvia.

Barbara whispered, "No! Not here!"

"ED!" Oswald screamed. "Ed! _Ed_!"

Sylvia climbed onto the stage.

While Oswald was patting Ed and worriedly tugging at his suit, Sylvia leaned forward and touched his carotid with her index and middle fingers.

Despite her hard-charging attitude, Sylvia's own fear was climbing to the surface.

"Ed!" Sylvia called. "Ed!" She patted his cheek with hard taps. " _Snap to_ , Ed!"

"Is he…?" Oswald said worriedly, his face stricken with concern and fear.

"God- **fucking** -damn it," Sylvia growled. "Move aside, Oswald."

"Sylvia—"

"—I said _**move**_ —"

"—What are you doing—"

Regardless of his confusion, Oswald quickly did as she had demanded.

Ed had a pulse, at least. So really, all he needed…

Wordlessly, she tilted back his head, lined her lips with his, and blew.

A few seconds later, Ed literally was breathed back to life; at first, he was shocked to see Sylvia so close to him, but then he grinned when Oswald touched his face, painstakingly relieved. Sylvia lifted herself off the ground, nearly falling on her face as she leapt off the stage and she approached Victor.

"Want me to torture him?" Victor offered.

"I'd love that—you know me—but we have to set the example…" Sylvia uttered so only he could hear. "This is the Mayor we're talking about…Not Penguin."

"You want to give him to the cops?"

"I share your disappointment," She empathized. "If it was Penguin, I'd say 'fuck it'. But this is the Mayor's party…in the eyes of the audience, they need to see him as a…a…Fuck, I'm drawing a blank right now."

"Hero, Got it." Victor said, nodding. He chuckled, "You're still drunk."

"Well, as sobering as it is to see someone put a gun to my husband's face…" Sylvia began, but she shook her head and muttered, "Fuck it. I'm not sober enough to talk about this. Look, just call the police, get him out of here, and…Well, you know the rest. I don't have to tell you."

Victor asked, "I guess you couldn't trust Butch in the end, huh?"

"I'm having trouble trusting a lot of people these days." Sylvia said quietly, glaring at Butch, who was now being carted off by Victor's men. "It's really making my job harder."

"Your job as the Penguin's Chief-of-Staff, you mean?"

"No." Sylvia said sadly.

"What other job, then?"

"My job as a mother." She told him.

Victor looked confused, but Sylvia didn't expand on the topic much longer.

The band was welcomed back on the stage as Victor called the police, reporting a gatecrashing that ended in blood shed and the like. As the band continued to rouse the crowd back to their original successful celebration, the police came and went.

Sylvia watched Ed and Oswald on the stage, smiling when Oswald's eyes reflected something familiar, something that for the longest time had only been reserved for her.

She approached the stage where Ed was sitting on the edge, holding his throat. Butch's strangling hold had left a severe purple hue.

"I'll take it from here," Sylvia offered. She touched Oswald's shoulder, saying, "Take him home."

"What about you?" asked Ed.

"I'll be fine here. I might get one more drink in me before the night is out."

"I'll send Gabriel to take you home," Oswald offered.

"That'll be fine. Thanks."

Oswald and Ed stood to their feet with Ed slightly unhinged by the whole aftermath. When they walked off the stage, Sylvia glanced at her hands curiously, more in thought than in wonder of their existence. She heard Oswald tell Ed to meet him in the limousine and shortly, he appeared in front of her.

Sylvia looked at him attentively.

"What's wrong?" Oswald asked.

"I have to talk to you about something." She told him.

"Right now?"

"No, another time. It's not appropriate to be discussed here." Sylvia reassured. She kissed his cheek, and said, "Take Ed home. And do me another favor?"

"Anything."

She paused. Hesitating.

"What is it, Pigeon?"

"Never mind." Sylvia said, shaking her head.

She didn't say anything else so Oswald nodded, understanding. They kissed briefly on the lips before Oswald went ahead.

* * *

Oswald climbed into the limo after Ed, sitting on the other side of him. Ed smiled at his appearance but his smile darkened to that of concern when Oswald didn't reciprocate his usual happy greeting.

"What's wrong?" Ed asked as the limo driver started the vehicle.

"Sylvia." He answered.

"What about her?"

Oswald shrugged, saying, "She had this expression on her face."

"What expression?"

"I'm not sure. I couldn't read it."

" _That's_ an expression," Ed said, nodding. "Is she all right?"

"I don't think she is. She wanted to talk about something important."

"She probably wants to talk about her inner circle."

"I'm sorry?"

"There are few people she trusts, she said, and she could count them on her hands."

"And they are?" Oswald asked curiously once the limo was on the move.

"You, me, Gordon, Bullock, Demetri, Zsasz, Gabe, and Butch."

"I didn't think she trusted Butch."

"She _did_ say 'occasionally'." Ed recalled.

"Butch's close reveal of his loyalties no doubt has made her more paranoid," Oswald reconciled.

A moment passed where neither could add to the conversation so they fell silent.

"You pushed Sylvia out of harm's way," Oswald cared to note. "Butch tried attacking her, but you pushed her to the side."

"Well, in retrospect, I'm sure Butch was after _you_. Sylvia just happened to take your place and I—in turn—decided to take hers."

"You were willing to die for her."

"I said I'd be willing to prove how much I care for her, Oswald."

"And you did prove it. Tonight."

"Honestly, I'd have done it for either of you."

"Would you have, really?"

"Really," Ed reassured, smiling. He cleared his throat, saying, "You should know, Oswald. I'd do anything for you. You can always count on me. You _both_ can."

Oswald stared at him for a second, registering those words. Only Sylvia and his mother had ever said those kind things to him. Seeing as Ed had proven himself, Oswald felt a nurturing glow swell inside his chest. He hugged Ed close to him, and smiled when Ed returned the gesture.

"Thank you." Oswald whispered.


	15. Exit The Hero

**Chapter Fifteen** : Exit the Hero

Trigger Warning: This chapter features a great deal of torture, horror, and gore.

Because for some, the trigger warning wasn't enough. There's a spoiler alert.

* * *

 **SPOILER ALERT:** A child dies in this chapter.

 **Update 02/17/2019: I'm going to say this once. This is a story. It's a plot device. Death threats are uncalled for.**

* * *

Sylvia returned to the manor, drunker than ever. As she walked, she had to lean against the wall, otherwise she'd fall over. Her loud entrance as she accidentally slammed the door made her giggle, having forgotten her own strength.

"Gabe…Gabe, I'm _fine_!" She said with an uninterrupted giggle.

Gabe was holding her arm, trying to get her to bed. Regardless of what she said, he wasn't hearing any of it.

"You've gotta go to bed, Mrs. P," He reminded her for the thirteenth time since getting her in the car. "Sleep it off."

"Honestly, I'm feeling fantastic!"

"You won't be saying that tomorrow morning, trust me."

Sylvia sighed deeply just as she entered the living room. Sitting on the couch was Demetri, who smiled when Gabe handed her over.

"She's a little drunk," He explained.

"I can see that," Demetri said gently. He helped Sylvia sit on the couch. "I'll take it from here, Mr. Gabriel. You can head to bed, now."

"I hope you know what you're doing, kid. She ain't easy to handle when she's drunk."

"Just a little TLC," Demetri joked.

Sylvia glanced between the two gentlemen, wondering if they were making fun of her or they were just being a bunch of men talking about drunken women. Throwing her purse onto the armchair (and it fell on the floor a moment after), Sylvia sat down on the couch with a _flop_. She looked up at the ceiling, grinning as her brain sloshed side to side; the visual she had in her mind anyway as the room started swiveling left then to the right.

"I'll see you later, man." Gabe told Demetri; they shook hands and then Gabe left to go back to his apartment.

Watching after him, Demetri grinned and looked to his Mistress who was lying down; one foot hanging off the cushion while the other lied at an angle on the back of the couch.

"I'm surprised as old as this house is," Sylvia slurred, "that the rainwater doesn't leak through…through the roof, you know, 'Metri?"

"Miss Sylvia…"

"Yeah?"

"Where did Gilzean go to?"

"Go what?"

"Where's Butch?" Demetri asked.

"He betrayed us." Sylvia answered stoically. She let out an arbitrary giggle, adding, "It's becoming a theme these days. Betrayers and traitors and snakes alike."

"You trusted Butch."

"Occasionally."

"Why did he betray you?"

"Whoknowswhy," Sylvia managed as she sat up. "Whoknows…I guess he felt like Oswald passed him over."

"Like he was unappreciated?"

"Precisely."

"I guess I can understand where he's coming from."

"Do you feel unappreciated?"

"Well, no," said Demetri with a small smile. "I've never felt more appreciated in my entire life. In fact, I'm grateful."

Sylvia sighed, "That's good to hear."

"But I do have a question."

"Well, if you ever wanted to know something, now's the time to ask it."

"Do you have loose lips, Miss Sylvia?"

"On the record, no. 'Loose lips sink ships'."

"That's an interesting saying."

"I wish I could claim credit for it, but it's a known saying."

Demetri gestured for Sylvia to move closer. In the mood for some nurturing, Sylvia smiled and she placed her head in Demetri's lap. He gently patted her shoulder and she turned on her back so she looked up at him.

"When Delilah was working for you," Demetri said slowly, "Did you think she'd betray you?"

"Of course not," Sylvia chuckled. "Honestly, I hoped that any of you would come to me first before you felt like betraying me at all. I like to think…Well, I _do_ have an Open-Door policy. Anytime you guys needed to talk, my door is—was open—is open."

"Did you ask her?"

"Ask her what?"

"Whether or not she was a traitor." Demetri clarified. "Did you ask if she was one before you had your suspicions?"

"I did."

"And?"

"She said she was faithful." Sylvia returned. She sat up and looked at Demetri closely. "Why do you want to know any of this? What's the point of going through the past and looking at every detail all over again? If this is some segue to asking me if I trust you, you should already know that by now."

"You trust me?" Demetri asked.

"With my life."

"With your life?" He repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Wow. That's…Wow, that's an honor."

"Is it?" Sylvia returned coyly. "You were happy enough to work for me when you had that waiting job in the coffee place. I figure working for me might have lost its luster after a while."

"I was more than honored to work for you."

"Why is that?"

"Because Delilah said it would be a good opportunity. I agreed with her."

Sylvia looked at him, or tried to. The alcohol in her system made everything blurry and it gave her some double vision. Demetri slowly stood, and she felt the waning of impending doom slowly sink in her stomach. And then rise.

"Delilah said it would be a great opportunity to get somewhere in life," said Demetri quietly. "She said it would help us get on top. But I didn't think that. I'd been a victim in a play for so long, I forgot what it was like to rise from decrepit dirt…to become something more."

He reached behind his back.

Sylvia stood, but she lost her balance. Her ass hit the ground and she looked up at him just as he was pulling out a gun.

"Demetri…" She said carefully.

"She envisioned a play, a perfect script. From the dirt and rubble rise the heroes of this piece," Demetri breathed, his eyes darkening. "And from the ashes of a fallen dynasty, we'd become more. But the script didn't pan out because _you_ " (he cocked the gun, aiming it at her) "had her killed."

"Demetri, think about what you're doing." Sylvia told him.

She held up her hands in front of her.

"The hero was supposed to be Delilah and me. The hero was supposed to be the people who came from _nothing,_ who had _nothing_. But you _took her away from me_!" Demetri said furiously, the gun shaking in his hand. "So, exit the hero…Enter the **villain**."

He was about to pull the trigger. But he didn't.

"You know…" Demetri whispered. "Maybe we can turn things around."

"You kill me," Sylvia warned, "And this _entire_ house will be coming after you."

"Not if they don't see a dead body."

"I gave you everything, and you'll shoot me dead in my own home."

"Well, you'll wish I have."

Sylvia stared at him: "…What? Why?"

"When you go upstairs," Demetri giggled. The sound coming from him raised the hairs on the back of her neck. "You took what was precious to me, so I thought I'd do the same."

She breathed fearfully, "What did you do?"

"To be honest, Delilah wasn't the mastermind. It was me. She just got caught up in everything and forgot that it was I who made things happen. I planned her getting hired. I planned on her going to the gynecologist—"

Sylvia stood and said furiously, " _I don't want to hear your goddamn plan_! What the fuck did you do to my daughter!"

Demetri sighed and waved the gun in the air exasperatedly, "See, it's this kind of attitude that brought me to this point. To be honest, I didn't think it'd be so easy to do it. Killing a kid, you know; it's so harsh. But when she cried, and cried, and cried—Man! It was easier than I thought!"

Sylvia screamed, ran towards him, and the bullets that penetrated her shoulder and her right leg were unnoticed as she grabbed his hand that held the gun, bit it, and the gun was tossed to the wayside.

The silencer hushed the sounds of gunfire.

Sylvia noticed and she glared at him while he smiled at her from his back.

"See why no one noticed!" Demetri laughed. "She's still in her bed, Sylvia. Still in her bed, but not asleep. You killed Delilah and it changed me. Let's see how having your baby murdered in your own fucking house _changes you_!"

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP!"

Sylvia grabbed the gun and struck him in the face over, and over, and over again. Her screams and his derisive laughter, and the commotion in general brought people inside: Ed and Oswald climbing down the stairs as quickly as possible and the two guardsmen that had been standing outside on the patio rushing forward.

When they all clamored into the living room, Demetri's laugh had long ago died when the rest of him did; his head had been smashed into a jelly-like pulp and she was still going hard. Blood blotted the couch, pooled and blended in with the carpet; her own face was painted red.

"FUCK YOU, DEMETRI! FUCK YOU! SEE WHO'S LAUGHING NOW! SEE! _**FUCK**_!"

"Oh my god," Ed mumbled.

Oswald grabbed Sylvia's arms, pulling her back. When she cried out in pain, he noticed the gun shot wounds in her shoulder and in her leg; her blood oozing out and rolling down her body.

"Call an ambulance!" Ed shouted at the guardsmen, who roughly scrambled to gather their cellphones.

"It'll be okay, Sylvia," Oswald quickly comforted, gathering her in his arms.

"Csilla!" Sylvia managed through uncontrollable sobs. "Csilla! He killed her! He—he killed her. It'smyfault—myfault—it'smyfault, I'm so sorry— _he fucking killed her—"_

Ed and Oswald exchanged fearful looks.

"Go!" Ed told Oswald. "Go, I'll stay with Sylvia—Go check on her!"

Oswald immediately left to go up the stairs. Limp forgotten as he climbed them quickly. Ed frowned and closed his eyes painfully when he heard his friend's scream of devastation. Meanwhile, Sylvia was holding onto him, crying in equal despair.

The ambulance that came occupied two dead bodies: one of the traitor, and the other of an innocent.


	16. The Act of Giving and Taking

Chapter Sixteen: The Act of Giving and Taking

* * *

" _Are you certain he has no other connection to Delilah than being manipulated?" Oswald had asked her suspiciously._

 _Sylvia returned confidently: "I'm certain of it. He's no longer under her spell."_

" _How certain?"_

" _I'd bet my life on it."_

 _I'd bet my life on it. I'd bet my life on it._

 _I'd bet my life._

 _ **My**_ _life._

"Not hers," Sylvia whimpered. "Not _hers_."

Oswald sat in the armchair provided beside her hospital bed. Ed sat in the one across from him. Each of them held one of Sylvia's hands. They could have tried to wake her up from her sleep, but the reality of the situation would have been no different.

For Oswald, it was a tragedy. His only daughter taken out of the world, barely a year old. But for Sylvia, it was an absolute nightmare.

How many times had both Oswald and Ed told Sylvia that Demetri was not to be trusted? How many times had she revoked their suspicions for paranoia or something lesser than the truth?

Sylvia once told Oswald that she would bet her life if it meant Demetri turned out to be a traitor. While her wounds had been covered and the bullets taken out during surgery, the loss was greater than she'd ever expected.

The mayor losing his daughter to a hired and 'faithful' associate after the arrest of another faithful associate who just so happened to be behind the Red Hood Gang initiation wasn't the best PR, but Oswald could barely care for the moment.

Oswald was angry. _God knows_ he was. He'd let Demetri get so close to his family and himself, included. Despite taking the young man in, even for a time period under his wing, and allowing his guard to fall…Sylvia gave him everything besides her life and Demetri had every intention of taking that as well.

Was there no honor among villains these days? No common decency?

Assuredly not.

"Oswald." Ed said hoarsely.

"Not now, Ed."

"Oswald, listen to me."

"I said _not now_."

Ed silenced and he gently touched Sylvia's hand, rubbing the back of it, hoping that she might come out of whatever nightmare she was reliving. Sylvia suddenly screamed, making Oswald and Ed jump. The two quickly stood, and shook her.

She opened her eyes, looking at the both of them.

For a moment, she was in shock. Then she started crying. She pulled her hands from the both of them and put them over her face, hiding her shame and despair. When either Oswald or Ed tried to comfort her, she pleaded for them to leave her alone. Seeing as she was devastated, they did as she asked. When the door was closed, Oswald glared at it briefly.

"Oswald—"

"I _know_ , Ed." He interrupted him irately. "She's not to blame, is she?"

"You _both_ trusted Demetri with your lives."

"I trusted him because _she_ did," Oswald snapped, thrusting a finger in the direction of her room as they walked down the hospital corridor. "I told her _time and time again_ that he was a traitor, that he would deceive her in the worst possible way. And what did she do? She welcomes him with open arms! Welcomed him to an opportunity to kill her **and** our daughter, and look where we are now!"

"I can understand how frustrating it is—"

"She's so charitable, it's maddening," Oswald continued furiously. "She wants to give and give and give until it kills her. Who knows—maybe this is what she wanted!"

"You know that's not true!" Ed rounded on him.

"Isn't it!"

Ed and Oswald looked around them, realizing they were drawing attention from patients and staff alike. Annoyed, Ed grabbed Oswald by the arm and pulled him into an empty hospital room, drawing the curtain forward so they were hidden from wandering eyes.

"I know you're angry," Ed told him callously. "I'm angry for you. What happened last night is no one's fault, but Demetri Byrd's and assuredly, Sylvia made him pay for it—"

"—SHE—"

"—And you can stand there and tell me that Sylvia is to blame for _all_ of this, but you can't tell me you didn't trust him at one point!" Ed finished, ignoring Oswald's attempts to interrupt him. "I agree with you, Oswald: Her sense of judgement is the worst, which is why I think she purposely follows you rather than choosing to lead."

"And _she_ —"

"If you think she needs to be punished for her misjudgment of Demetri," Ed said darkly. "You could try reprimanding her. I doubt you will get far. She's inconsolable, and she blames _herself_ for what's happened. That's punishment enough."

Oswald frowned, saying, "Am I able to get a word inch-wise around here or are you going to keep interrupting me?"

Ed crossed his arms, giving Oswald the floor.

Oswald said coldly, "You're right. I blame her for what happened. What I was going to say—before you kept interrupting me—is that she claims to trust other people, other people who worked closely with Demetri. I want all of them interrogated. I want Victor Zsasz to run point."

"That will take a few hours."

"So be it."

"I doubt it matters to you that you have an upcoming conference with the Head of Finance in two hours?"

"OF COURSE, IT DOESN'T MATTER TO ME!" Oswald shouted.

Ed said simply, "I was just clarifying. I'll take care of it, and I'll contact Zsasz. Would you like me to explain the situation to him? He might not respond immediately if I contact him initially."

"No explanation will be necessary. He'll respond when he finds out it's about Sylvia."

"Good enough. And what about Gordon?"

"What about him?"

"Would you like me to call him and let him know the situation as well?"

"It won't do _me_ any good," Oswald said irately. He paused and said quietly, "Tell him."

"About Demetri as well?"

"All of it. If he doesn't find out from either myself or Sylvia, he'll find out through rumors. And I wouldn't want that."

"Fair enough." Ed said, nodding dutifully. He patted Oswald's shoulder and said, "If there are more snakes in the grass, we'll pull them out." He left his side to make those phone calls.

Oswald wandered through the corridor and stood in front of the hospital room where Sylvia resided. Through the window glass, he could see Sylvia in her bed, turned on her stomach and crying in her pillows; her shoulders shaking so hard, and on what little part of her face Oswald could see, such devastation. Perhaps it was the pain of the bullet in her shoulder or her leg that caused that pain, but most certainly, it was the pain of losing someone close to her.

Yes, he blamed her for what happened. How could he not? Still…Oswald felt her pain tug on his heartstrings. Ed was right: she clearly blamed herself. Why must he put that blame on her when she was suffering enough?

Sighing deeply, Oswald opened the door; the moment he did, he could hear her sobs, almost muffled by the pillows. He crawled into the bed with her; she tried resisting his touch, knowing that if he did hold her, she'd cry harder. Oswald pulled her to him, seeing the gauze and bandages covering her shoulder as her hospital gown was tugged downward when she tried to fight him.

"It's okay, Pigeon." He whispered, lacing his fingers through her hair and rubbing the back of her head. "It's okay…I know…"

Her head lied on his chest and her muffled cries were heard: "I'm sorry, Oswald. I'm sorry…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…I'm _so_ sorry…!"

He kissed the top of her head and hushed, "Me too."

* * *

In forty-eight hours, the ' _Breaking News_ ' story was centered around Csilla. A tale of how a baby sitter, who'd been taken in by the Cobblepots and trusted with their most precious gem, tried to kill the Mayor's wife with the same weapon that had been used to kill Csilla.

Two weeks later, and it still hurt just as much.

Sylvia watched the news. Her face was catatonic as the truth of the situation was thrown in her face. She let out a dry sob, and switched off the television. Thankfully, as she cried for the umpteenth time in the morning, Oswald wasn't there to comfort her.

She didn't _want_ comfort. She wanted to be miserable.

It was her fault. No, Oswald never said the words, but she was perceptive. Despite his soft words in her ear and the gentle touches, Sylvia knew he blamed her for what happened. She convinced him to trust Demetri, persuaded him to give him another chance.

"Fucking idiot." Sylvia growled, throwing the remote to the side; it bounced off the bed and hit the floor.

There was a knock on the door. Three stern knocks, but the fourth was hesitantly light.

"Come in." She called hoarsely.

Entering through the door was Jim, who held a sapphire vase of carnations and red roses. Solemnly, he closed the door and placed the vase on the window sill with few words. There was a small exchange of a greeting, and he sat in the armchair closest to her. Sylvia looked at him for a second before she looked away.

"I'm sorry, Vee."

"Yeah." Sylvia returned quietly.

"If you need anything…"

"There's nothing you could offer that would make me feel better."

"I'd have offered you another chance to beat that son-of-a-bitch a second time, if I could."

Sylvia met his gaze and laughed darkly, "Well, I guess I was wrong."

Jim held out his hand. She took it, looking at him curiously.

"I don't care what was said or what people are thinking. It isn't your fault." Jim told her.

"Oh, it is." She protested. "I trusted Demetri when I shouldn't have. I gave him protection when I shouldn't have. And I convinced Oswald of his loyalty when I shouldn't have. Everything I shouldn't have done, I did, and it put me where I am now."

"You couldn't have known."

"I could have. In fact, there were a few moments when I thought I did." Sylvia said hatefully. "A few moments that I _thought_ I saw his true colors. Like a simpleton, like an idiot, like the Waynes, I let myself believe that there was still good in that fucker. It didn't get me killed like the Waynes, but it cost me more than just my life."

"Vee."

" _Don't sit there and tell me I'm wrong!_ "

Jim bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. He sighed, and rubbed her hand with his thumb, saying, "You're not stupid or a simpleton for giving people a second chance."

"I give too many chances. It's my flaw."

"It's your strength."

"I thought I saw people for who they were." Sylvia said painfully. "I thought I could tell that he was good. I thought I saw…Fuck, you know, I don't know what I saw. After Brittany and Delilah, I thought maybe I'd find someone who wasn't so blinded or misguided. Turns out Demetri was the one behind Delilah's betrayal; he wasn't the accomplice—Delilah was."

"Vee…"

"Then there's Butch."

"What?"

"Butch was behind the Red Hood gang," Sylvia said darkly. "He got the gang together. He charged them with blowing up the priest, and the invasion on the Merc. He's another one that I didn't think would betray me. God, I'm so stupid—I should have at least seen _that_ coming, considering he'd betrayed Oswald once before."

"He was brainwashed before."

"It's still betrayal. And I'm the idiot who fell for it all."

"You're not the only one who fell for those antics."

"It doesn't make me feel any better!" Sylvia told Jim harshly. "My strength is reading people. I used to be able to read people. Somewhere along the way, I've lost that ability. I don't know…"

Jim sighed and he sat on Sylvia's bed. He waved at her to scoot over. Resentfully, Sylvia did, knowing Jim would find a way in there and end up shoving her to the side anyway.

"I know what it's like to lose a child."

"The miscarriage," Sylvia recalled.

"I know it's different…Since you had Csilla and…"

"It's not different. It's the same. Losing a child is losing a child—it doesn't matter when or why or how."

"Fair point," Jim surrendered. "You won't get over it. But it'll get easier to live with."

"Does Lee share that view point? Or is that just you?"

"I think it's the both of us."

Sylvia scoffed, "I wish that were true. Oswald blames me for what happened. And I can't even be mad at him for that."

"I doubt he blames you."

"He didn't say it, but I can feel it. When he kisses me, when he hugs me, I can feel the difference. We've not really spoken that much since..."

"He trusted Demetri, too, I thought."

"He did, because _I_ convinced him too. For all he knows, I tricked him."

Jim said loudly, "He does _not_ think that!"

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Maybe not. But that's what **I** would be thinking if I was in his position."

"You've been cooped up in this hospital bed for far too long. Left with nothing but your thoughts." Jim noted. "You need to get out. When is your discharge date?"

"Presumably tomorrow or the day after."

"Demetri didn't hit any arteries?"

"It's a flesh wound, at best. It hurts to move, but, at the moment, it hurts to live too. So, what's the fucking difference."

"Well, it's nice to know your dark sense of humor hasn't been wounded."

"No, it's very much alive." Sylvia returned, allowing herself to smile. "I'm just happy that I gave it to Demetri before he felt the need to die."

"Yes," Jim said slowly. "I hear you gave Lee a run for her money. She couldn't tell what killed him first: the blow to the head or to the rest of him."

Sylvia looked up at him: "You still talk to her?"

"From time to time. In passing, really."

"Hmm."

Jim wrapped his arm around her, saying, "I'm really sorry for what happened, Vee."

"Don't be."

"Why?"

"I was actually going to talk to Oswald about her," Sylvia said quietly. "After what had happened with Butch, I was going to tell Oswald that we should consider giving Csilla up for adoption. That way, she'd never have to grow up looking over her shoulder, wondering if someone will come to kill her or her parents from one day to the next."

"Oh…"

Sylvia sniffled, rubbing her eyes, whispering, "I never wanted her to grow up like this. I never wanted that for her, Jimmy. Never!"

"I know."

Sylvia started crying again, and Jim patted her head, much like in the way Oswald had comforted her. He kissed her forehead and waited for her crying spell to subside. It did within ten or twenty minutes. As she pulled herself back together, Jim smiled. She looked at him incredulously.

"Why are you smiling?"

"I was just thinking of something. It's nothing."

"Something made you smile: what was it? I want to know!"

Jim grinned with little restraint, saying, "I was just remembering how Bernie had snatched my blanket, ripped it to shreds. I was—what—maybe eight or nine, and I couldn't pull myself together to save my life."

Sylvia giggled, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, "It was your favorite blanket. You cried like a bitch."

"And no matter what Dad said, I wouldn't stop crying." Jim said, laughing in spite of his face turning red with embarrassment. "Dad kept saying 'Jimmy, it'll be okay. Jimmy, stop crying. You'll hurt yourself, boy'."

Sylvia chuckled, "And he kept roping me into it: 'Vee, see if you can't…', and 'Hey, Vee, try talking to your brother.' It's like he was expecting me to work miracles or something."

"You got into a lot of trouble but you could always find the right words to help me out."

"Which is odd, because I think in order for me to make you shut up, I had to give you my favorite blanket. Or maybe I had to take scissors to it…"

"I think you did, because I remember you giving me half." Jim said, pointing to her.

Sylvia shrugged, and then winced when she felt a stabbing sensation in her shoulder, but she tried ignoring it.

"I don't remember Dad saying anything in particular when I did that," Sylvia stated, looking up at the ceiling as she tried to recall that day.

"I do."

"What, _you_ remember?"

"I think I do."

"What did he say?"

Jim grinned, saying, "'She's a pain in the ass, but if she knows how to make people feel better, she'll do it.'"

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "A compliment? From _him_? I doubt it."

"That's what he said." Jim protested, smiling.

"I don't believe you."

"Well, you should. He was right, you know."

"Hm…"

"You're a helpful person, Vee," said Jim softly. "You help people. You're charitable. You give what you can, and you give more than you're able. The people who take advantage of that are not worth your time or your energy. The people who are grateful that someone like you still exists are worth it."

Sylvia said morbidly, "Everyone starts out like me, Jimmy. There's a reason why Dad didn't want you to see the real city's colors. Gotham changes people."

"Gotham doesn't change people. Events and incidents change people."

"Demetri said that me killing Delilah changed him. Before he died, he said he hoped that having Csilla murdered in my own home would change _me_."

"Only if you allow it to."

"It's my generosity that got me here," Sylvia reminded him unhappily. "In this bed, in this room, and it's the same thing that put Csilla in the ground. Being a giving person in Gotham hasn't helped me anymore than being an idealist has helped _you_."

"So, what are you saying? You're done being nice?"

"I'm done being nice to strangers." She corrected. "People will have to _earn_ my kindness and my generosity. I'm done wasting it on people who pretend to be my friend, only for them to turn around and hurt the people I care about."

Jim sighed, saying, "I suppose trying to push my idealistic views on you will only make you more determined."

"You'd be right."

Jim leaned into her, kissed her forehead and whispered, "You give people hope, Vee. You're a hero to some people."

"I'm a criminal."

"You're an honest criminal."

"Aw. Blurring the lines of right and wrong just for me," Sylvia said with a small smile. "That's sweet."

Whether Jim was about to retort or attest to that fault, his phone started ringing. Sylvia looked at him expectantly, saying, "My, my, who's calling you now. You don't work for the GCPD anymore."

"I don't know who it is."

"Might as well put them on speaker phone."

"Maybe you're right." Jim conceded, smirking. "At best, we'll have a nice laugh or two."

Jim put the caller on speaker.


	17. Two Hearts and a Spade

**Chapter Seventeen: Two Hearts and a Spade**

 **Author's Note:** (02/14/2019) So, I've been going back and reading my story, and I've realized there are (several) grammatical errors and some continuity mistakes. Currently working on them as we speak. Most of them are about the timeline regarding Jim and Sylvia's mother and my altered timeline of when Jim and Sylvia lost their father. Currently working on fixing those errors. No worries though; it doesn't affect the future events or change the story at all. Much love!

* * *

 _Jim put the caller on speaker._

"Hello?" Jim answered.

" _James, James, James, James Gordon_."

Sylvia's eyes widened.

Jim looked more or less annoyed and he responded, "Jervis?"

" _I said I'd give you time to see your sister. I didn't say you can spend the afternoon with her. We have business yet to discuss. Please let us do so, and make no fuss_."

Sylvia mouthed, "What the fuck?"

Jim shook his head and said pointedly, "Jervis, I said I'm done playing your game."

" _Killing a married couple isn't enough? You have to bring another one into this tuft?_ " Tetch questioned ironically. " _And I hear the hospital call systems sounding off up there…I guess you put me on speaker for your sister fair_?"

Jim growled, "We're done playing, Tetch. I'm hanging up now."

" _Jim, don't—_!"

Jim hung up.

Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed, asking, "What the hell is he talking about? You killed a couple?"

"I didn't kill anyone!" Jim resounded loudly. "He gave me an option earlier: either I had to let a married couple fall or a kid was going to get run over by a semi. I chose."

"You saved the kid."

"But the couple jumped off a building. They died in front of me."

"Why are you visiting me in a hospital if you've got this shit on your shoulders?" Sylvia exclaimed as she stood.

"I heard what happened and I was worried."

"Tetch is after you!"

"I know that!"

"Is it because of what happened with Alice? His sister?"

"Yes," said Jim, nodding.

The phone started ringing.

Sylvia started getting out of bed. Jim ran to her side.

"What are you doing?"

"He's trying to kill you."

"He hasn't come close."

"And you're going to wait for him get close?" Sylvia said incredulously.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I've lost one member of my family today, I'm not about to lose another. Where are my _fucking_ clothes, goddamn it!"

"You are not leaving."

"I am too."

"You've not been discharged—"

"—I can walk—"

"—You're limping—"

"Well, get me a fucking walking stick, I don't give a shit!" Sylvia snapped. "Tetch is a madman, and I'm sure the cops won't be able to pick up on the fact that you're not responsible for whatever or however many deaths lie in your wake!"

The phone was still ringing.

"He'll want to know you're on your way, James." Sylvia warned. "Answer it."

"—No—"

"Answer him!"

"FINE!"

Jim quickly grabbed the phone from the bed and, as before, he placed it on speaker.

Tetch spoke from the speaker: " _Take a look outside the window, Jim. If you take a peek, you'll find what you seek_."

Jim and Sylvia glanced at one another. The two of them meandered to the window, and they peered outside of the second story view to see Tetch standing on the sidewalk; a phone to his ear while the other hand waved back at them.

" _I wonder_ ," said Tetch, " _what is it that you have against married couples? Bad memories, perhaps? It's understandable, given that the last time you saw a woman in a wedding dress, she had a shotgun pointed at you_."

"Hey, Jervis." Jim said with a small smile.

" _Yes, James_?"

Jim hung up on him for the second time.

Sylvia snorted with laughter, saying, "That probably wasn't wise."

"What do I care?" Jim asked and he grinned when his phone started ringing again.

"You might want to answer him."

"Let him sweat a little."

"Well, you do that, and I'm going to try and find my clothes," Sylvia responded jovially. "If he pulls a bazooka behind his back, you'll let me know."

Jim answered the phone and, once more, put Tetch on speaker; the man wasn't happy: " _Don't you ever do that again_!"

"Okay." And he hung up for the third time.

"Hey!" Sylvia said happily. "I found my clothes. I'm going to the bathroom to change. Do not leave without me."

"Fair enough." Jim called from the window. He answered the phone once more when it had started ringing again. "Hello?"

" _Stop that_!"

"Who is this?" Jim asked innocently.

" _That's rude, James. Do not—_ "

"I'm sorry, you have the wrong number."

And he hung up for the fourth time.

Sylvia came striding out in dark royal blue capris, a black tank top, and blue tennis shoes.

Jim looked over his shoulder when he saw her new reflection in the mirror and he said dismally, "You can't expect to walk out of the hospital."

"I can't? Watch me." Sylvia challenged. "With the way I'm feeling and what I've been through, I dare anyone to mess with me right now."

His phone rang again.

"He's persistent, isn't he?" Sylvia commented, walking to the window where Jim stood.

"Like a weed." Jim answered. He put Tetch on the speaker once more, and didn't give him a chance to talk as he interrogated, "This is about your sister, isn't it? In your addled brain, you blame me for what happened to her."

" _Don't you talk about her_!"

"I got to know her, Jervis. She was a good person. That's why she hated you. Why she died trying to get away from you. You want revenge: Kill yourself."

Sylvia chuckled and said to Tetch, "I've never been so proud to be his sister. I doubt Alice could have said the same!"

" _Dismissive, rude, I don't like your attitude_!"

"Well, I'll tell you what. I can come down, and we can talk about it in person."

" _Hang up again, and she dies_."

"Who are you talking about? Who?"

" _Surprising, really, given that in every relationship you've been in has ended in such misery_ ," Tetch drawled.

Sylvia glanced at Jim pointedly.

" _And yet, you've made the choice to date again. Poor girl. She had no idea who she was getting into bed with. She will soon. See for yourself: Look just a few feet away from where I am standing and you will know of whom I speak_."

Sylvia and Jim both lifted their eyes from Tetch's presence to a van where one of his associates had hoisted up Valerie Vale over their shoulder and tossed her inside the van. Jim hitched a breath and Sylvia growled inwardly.

" _Great thing about reporters is that if you tell them you have a story, they'll meet you anywhere_." Tetch, then, decided to hang up on Jim.

"Try to get her!" Sylvia shouted. "GO JIM!"

Jim took the initiative, leaving the room. As he did, Sylvia watched Tetch wave at her. His kindred smile made her shiver unpleasantly, but it also gave her something of a warning feeling. Why was he smiling at her? Unless…

Two men who were clearly not part of the hospital staff suddenly strode into her room.

"Fuck, no! NO!" Sylvia screamed.

Tetch had tracked her to the hospital by following Jim. Vale's kidnapping had lured Jim away so Tetch could kidnap her!

"No! No, no, no, no! Get out! If you knew what—!"

The largest of the thugs hit her over the head with a gun. She fell, and became dead weight. Like one of the thugs had done with Vale, this one heaved Sylvia's body over his shoulder and, with the permission of the bribed hospital staff, left the hospital with little to no interruption. When the van had screeched out of Jim's vision, it circled around behind the hospital to meet them where Sylvia was thrown into the back none too gently.

* * *

As she came to, Sylvia was fighting the entire time—even as a pair of handcuffs were thrown and caught around her wrists and her feet were treated in the same manner, along with some tape and rope.

Before she could speak, Sylvia's mouth was slapped with some tape; the thug jumped into the van with his partner and the two of them slammed her against the closest wall, and ordered her to stay put otherwise the other two were going to get a bullet to the head.

When she heard this, it was only then that Sylvia realized she had been thrown into the same van as Valerie Vale, and, to her surprise, Leslie Thompkins.

Sitting in the front seat was Jervis Tetch, who, after the van had started running and smoothly coursing down the finely paved road, enthusiastically hopped into the back to meet with the women.

Lee's phone was apparently ringing, and Tetch picked it up answering: "Sorry, Jim. Lee isn't here. I'll be happy to take a message. No? Good. And, as I'm sure you'll be heading up to your sister's room, I'll be happy to take a message for her as well, seeing as she isn't there any longer."

Tetch put him on speaker phone just as Jim had done to him and pointed the phone in Sylvia's direction with a smug smile as Jim growled: " **Where the hell is she**!"

"She's with the rest of your lady dears," Tetch said with a small impish giggle: "Gotham Water and Power plant: ten minutes."

" _I need to know she's okay—Vale, Lee, and Vee_."

"What you want means nothing to me! Nine minutes!" Tetch said sternly. Then he hung up. He grinned at Sylvia, saying, "See what that feels like? See how rude that is?"

Vale and Lee glanced at Sylvia, who narrowed her eyes and snarled through her tape.

"Now, for the sake of politeness and all that is gentlemanly," said Tetch calmly, "I'll say that in your condition, Mrs. Cobblepot, you shouldn't have been manhandled so savagely" (He glared at his thugs) "after all, you've already been injured once this month. There was no need for my men to cause further harm. So, that said, as an act of contrition the least I can do is allow your Rights not to be violated."

He waited. The thugs just looked on in curiosity.

Tetch said irritably, "Take the tape off her mouth!"

They quickly did as he demanded. The thug that hit Sylvia over the head, now ever so gently took the tape off her mouth. When he started to retreat, Sylvia spit in his face, grinning widely when he tried to reciprocate the gesture.

"Don't you even think about it!" Tetch warned.

The thug grumbled some unkind words and then he went back to sitting in the passenger seat; his co-worker was still in the driver's seat.

Tetch sat between them, facing the girls, one leg crossed over the other knee as he smiled at all three of them.

"Well, Jim sends his regards." He said casually. "Now…where were we? Ah, yes! Introductions.

"Valerie Vale, this is Leslie Thompkins. She's the Medical Examiner, works at the Gotham Central Police Department. Dr. Thompkins, this is Valerie Vale: she's an esteemed reporter, and works for the 'Gotham Gazette'. And I'm sure the two of you have—at one point—met Mrs. Cobblepot: Sister to whom will be our guest of honor. Ladies, _you_ two are two halves of James Gordon's heart."

"So why the fuck am I here if you're only interested in obtaining Jim's love interests?" asked Sylvia wryly.

"Because you, my dear, are quite important yourself. Personally, I don't think there's anyone in this world that Jim loves more than you. After all, you're his sister. And I know I loved **my** sister dearly…"

"You touched her when you were kids," Sylvia said darkly. "That's not love. That's perverse."

"For a Mayor's wife, you're certainly crass, aren't you?"

"Mayor's wife or not, I'm a Gordon. We're not ladylike."

"Fair enough," said Tetch, smiling. "However, that doesn't deter your importance to my game. You hold a special place in James' heart, one that not many have the chance or the privilege—or should I say the misfortune—to occupy. It's imperative you understand this, as you are, without getting into the technicalities, my retainer. That would make you my Ace of Spades. And if you're not more civil, I'm afraid you'd have to be hit with a Club."

"Are you sure this is about your sister and not about my rejecting you at my club?" Sylvia asked pointedly. She glanced at Vale and Lee, adding, "He tried to hypnotize me into liking him; even under the trance, I still said 'no'."

" _ **SILENCE**_!" Tetch screamed; he made Vale and Lee jump, but Sylvia smirked knowingly.

"One more peep out of you...and you'll see what my men can do."

"I guess you're not as 'gentlemanly' as you think you are," Sylvia returned harshly.

"I assure you, my dear. There _are_ no gentlemen like me."

"Well, considering the fact that I am married to one: think again."

"Speaking of your husband, I wouldn't plan on getting any feedback from your guards or the policemen. None of them know you've been stolen from the hospital."

"Who cares what they know?" Sylvia laughed. "You told Jim. _Jim_ knows."

"And if he gets the cops involved, it will not be pleasant."

When Sylvia had nothing to say, Tetch grinned sheepishly. He finally won an argument against the shrew. One point to him!


	18. A Guilt Trip

Chapter Eighteen: A Guilt Trip

* * *

 _ **Trigger Warning**_ _: This chapter is a guilt trip where Tetch pretty much breaks Sylvia psychologically. Don't worry, people; this story will lighten up in the next chapter, I promise._

* * *

As Lee and Vale were forced to walk through the former's home, Sylvia was thrown over the shoulder of one of Tetch's minions and was carried inside the house. Lee and Vale were chained inside the bathroom, their ankles placed in shackles and hooked up to the tub, while Sylvia was given lesser justice; her wrists was chained underneath the sink, her legs still bound by rope and tape, and was kept at a further distance from the other girls. She simply lied on her back, glaring at Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee as they left the bathroom, closing the door, ignoring Lee's logic and Vale's insistence that Tetch would only kill his minions once he set out to complete his misdeeds.

Once the bathroom door was closed, the room seemed less suffocating as they were left only to their devices.

Sylvia sighed deeply, looking up at the ceiling with little enthusiasm.

"I bet you're tired of this happening to you," Vale muttered, glancing at her.

"It's happened enough, I've gotten used to this." Sylvia answered.

"I don't miss this." Lee said unhappily.

"Well, I don't exactly _enjoy_ it either."

Vale and Lee stood, looking at one another pointedly before Vale asked, "So why did they bring us back to your place?"

"Like I know," Lee returned sardonically, stepping a few paces forward towards the sink. She glanced down apologetically at Sylvia, who wiggled her legs a few inches so she could move her head away from Lee's footing.

"Any chance of your boyfriend showing up early?" Vale insisted.

"Unlikely."

Sylvia asked curiously, "What're you doing up there, Lee?"

"Looking for something to use to get out of these shackles." Lee answered dutifully.

"You do know what this is about, don't you?" asked Vale.

"Yeah." Lee answered, glancing over her shoulder to look at her. "Tetch blames Jim for what happened to his sister, and we are his means for revenge. I've been here before." She had taken something from the medicine cabinet above the sink.

Vale said, "That's going to be too big. You'll never spring the mechanism."

Lee put the item back in the cabinet, and continued to look through it.

"It's ironic though," Vale continued. "I was just asking Jim to get me an interview with you."

"Uh-huh…"

"And here we are. See, I'm doing a story on Alice Tetch's blood, and I know you're running point for the GCPD," Vale said, looking down at her hands but her attention was avidly focused on the doctor. She looked up, meeting her incredulous gaze.

"You're not seriously trying to interview me right now, are you?" Lee questioned.

"Jim said you wouldn't talk to me."

"And he was right."

"I think he was just being protective of you," Vale said sincerely. "Anyway, about Alice Tetch, I hear they're running experiments on her blood at the GCPD bio facility. Care to comment?"

"You know," Lee rounded, glaring ironically at her, "Maybe you're just scared and this is your way of coping, or you're just insanely committed to your job. Either way, all I'm interested in is getting out of here."

"Try a cuticle pusher," Vale offered. "My dad was a cop; he taught me how to pick locks. I can guide you through it."

"Finally, some help!" Lee said, relieved. She turned, looking through the cabinet; finding one, she grinned…that was until Vale spoke again.

"And in exchange, you can talk to me about Alice Tetch."

Lee scoffed, "You and Jim were made for each other."

"Thanks!"

"That wasn't a compliment."

Lee and Vale sat down on the floor. As Vale talked Lee through picking the lock on her ankle restraint, the two women glanced over at Sylvia, who was still lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling, quiet as ever.

"This is the first time I've been in the same room with her," whispered Vale, "and her not say anything to me."

"Same." Lee returned just as softly. She looked at Sylvia once more, and addressed her: "Sylvia…?"

"What…" She asked hoarsely.

"You're awfully quiet." Lee noted.

"So, I am."

"Are you okay?" Vale asked.

"No." Sylvia answered. She grunted as she pulled herself up, putting her back against the wall and sank slightly so she could see the two women from underneath the sink. "I'm far from being fucking okay."

"If you're worried about Jim," Vale began, "I'm sure he's alright."

"Tetch is going to play with his food before he kills us." Sylvia told her apathetically, glancing at the door. "He went to the Power plant to tease him; he's driving him insane and then the final show down is going to take place here. He's going to make him choose."

"'Choose'?" Lee and Vee asked simultaneously.

Sylvia nodded, saying, "Between you two."

"Well, don't you mean 'us three'. You're here too, you know." Vale reminded.

Sylvia chuckled malevolently; what little mirth was there in her eyes left almost suddenly.

"Tetch said I am his retainer." She told them. She wiggled her toes, looking down at her tennis shoes, and said softly, "If Jim doesn't choose which of you to kill, Tetch is going to kill _me_. You put two people Jim loves and his own sister in the same situation, and expect that kind of game not to happen…?"

"You're scaring me." Lee whispered, as she continued picking the lock.

"Oh yeah?" Sylvia asked. She stared at the ceiling again, whispering, "Join the club."

* * *

There was an eerie silence in the bathroom. For a while, it was just Vale telling Lee how to pick the lock, how to trigger the spring, and Lee following her instructions with a few questions of her own. The topic of Alice Tetch had long been dropped.

There were some sturdy footsteps approaching the bathroom door. Immediately, Vale stiffened and Lee put the cuticle pusher down and sat on it to hide it from whomever was approaching. Sylvia, on the other hand, appeared less inclined to acknowledge that any danger was approaching; even with the door opened to reveal Tetch, smirking at them all.

"Well, well, isn't this cozy," Tetch said, grinning madly. "It's nice to see friendly faces."

He glanced down at Sylvia, who met his eyes with less enthusiasm.

"Well, perhaps only _one_ friendly face. I hate to break up this beautiful reunion," Tetch continued sadly, "but Mrs. Cobblepot" (He whistled and one of his minions appeared by his side and started unhooking Sylvia from the sink) "and I have a prior engagement to attend."

Sylvia didn't even fight. She hung like dead weight over the minion's shoulder and Tetch waved at the two women, the door closing behind them.

* * *

"Sit her right there," Tetch ordered casually of his minion, gesturing to a comfortable armchair. "And please be gentle."

Dumfree, as the minion called himself, was as gentle as he could be and he placed Sylvia in the armchair.

"Thank you. Please leave us." Tetch said politely.

Dumfree nodded and did as he was told.

They were clearly in the living room. Or, perhaps, was it the dining room. In the center of the room was a table with exactly four chairs around it. The set up appeared to be for a tea party, fit for Tetch, the Guest of Honor, Lee, and Vale. Sylvia glanced at the placement, frowning when Tetch strolled pleasantly and gingerly pulled up a chair so he could sit adjacent to her.

Quietly, he poured himself a cup of a tea. He glanced up at the handcuffs that were chafing Sylvia's wrists; red rings had started to form around them; the rope and tape that bound her legs made her feel more helpless; a bound bird was a sad bird. And one not so willing to fight.

"You're wondering why I brought you here?" asked Tetch lightly, taking a sip of his tea a moment after.

"I don't have to wonder," Sylvia answered hoarsely. "I know your games."

"Am I that easy to read?"

"Like an open book. But then again, maybe I'm wrong. I've been wrong a few times already."

"Ah yes," sighed Tetch. "Well, we have some time. I'd love to hear what your theories are."

Sylvia frowned saying, "I'm not in the mood to talk."

"Well, I am. So…" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a Glock, cocked the hammer back, and pointed it at her: "I hope I can change your mind."

Sylvia sighed, saying, "Fine then. You mentioned I'm your retainer. You brought both Lee and Vale here, so I'm guessing you're going to make Jim choose between them—you're going to make him choose who you should kill. If Jim doesn't choose, then, as I am your retainer, you will kill _me_. Is that about it?"

Tetch's smile widened, saying, "My darling Lark, I do believe you have sold yourself short. You really _are_ good at reading people…just not _your_ people. That's tragic, I know. As I'm sure you do as well."

Sylvia felt her right eye twitch. She whispered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Now, let's not play ignorant. It's in the _papers_." Tetch said with a malicious grin. "Your people are a cold-hearted bunch, are they not? I can't imagine what that must be like; this boy of yours, what was his name—Demetri. My goodness; he was there by your side through your pregnancy, staying by your side just so he could _take her out_ the moment he had the chance. And you gave him that chance, didn't you? Oh, see—there."

Sylvia's bottom lip was quivering, and she tried to fight her tears but they deceived her by rolling down her cheek.

"I hate to tell you, my darling Lark. I hate to be the one to say this. But there really isn't anyone else to blame but yourself." Tetch said with a sad sigh; he leaned back in his chair, and sipped the rest of his tea while Sylvia proceeded to crumble.

She covered her eyes; her shoulders, shaking.

"You're good at reading people." Tetch sighed. "Just not **your** people. And if you're not able to do that, then what's the point of having that skill anyway? It's odd, you know. When I first met you, I really thought you had a hold on everything: the club, your staff, your family—really, you don't have much of anything anymore, do you? Except your brother, perhaps...Take it from me, Lark, I don't think that's going to help you any."

"Would you just _shut up_!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him through wet eyelashes. "Would you stop? _Please_?"

"We're just talking." Tetch said innocently.

"Are we!"

"Perhaps we can talk about something other than your dead daughter."

Sylvia felt her insides turn unpleasantly.

"We can talk about your marriage!" Tetch said happily.

He offered the pitcher and an empty cup in front of her. Sylvia shook her head with a discernible snarl. His smile faltered, until he poured himself a refill and then placed the pitcher on the end table, farthest from Sylvia's reach.

"I'm sure this whole tragedy has put a wedge between you and our Mayor," said Tetch calmly. "Such a travesty. He lost his mother, and, now, he's lost a daughter. This poor man can't catch a break, can he?"

Sylvia said nothing. She tightened her lips, and glared at Tetch with all her strength. If looks could kill…If only.

"If I was your husband—"

"Well, you're not!" Sylvia snapped. "And you don't know anything about us, so why don't you just shut the fuck up."

"I don't know anything?" Tetch said incredulously. He truly looked appalled. He placed his cup and saucer beside the tea pitcher, and leaned forward with a stern expression, saying, "Sylvia, look at me. I know plenty about what you and the Mayor have gone through. The atrocities that you've swallowed, and the horrors that you and our Mayor have endured. Your people have _very_ loose lips. But in their defense, they were hypnotized. So, naturally, they've told me _everything_."

"You're bluffing."

"Perhaps. If that was true, I'm sure you'd have been able to tell. But, looking at your eyes, I can tell you know I am not lying."

Sylvia's frown deepened and she muttered, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Doing what?"

"This." Sylvia said, gesturing to him hatefully. "You're after Jim. Not me."

"Oh, I am sorry. Am I making you relive the most painful moment in your life over and over, and over again?" Tetch questioned; a vindictive smile crossed his features and he said with faux incredibility, "I'm so, _so_ sorry, Mrs. Cobblepot." His nicety was dropped as he added seriously, "You and James are one in the same, my darling Lark. You and Jim: one. In. The. Same. He is the reason why I lost my sister."

"Your _sister_ threw herself on a pike!" Sylvia spat, sitting forward. If her legs hadn't been bound, she'd have gotten up. "She couldn't stand to be around you; she'd have rather killed herself than be anywhere near you. _You_ are the reason she is dead. Not Jim. And certainly not _me_."

Tetch smiled and said, "I have relived that night over and over again. I've thought about it more than a hundred times: 'How could I have done things differently'. It matters not. It doesn't change what has happened. All I can do is try to make up for what I have done. Funnily enough, that brings us back to the conversation of your marriage, you see."

"How does anything you say or have done tie up with my marriage?" Sylvia asked harshly.

"Well..." Tetch sighed. "You're aware, of course, that your husband blames you for what happened with your daughter. After all, _you_ told him he could trust Demetri. _You_ gave the boy more than enough chances—more than you've ever given yourself, in fact. As a mother, your maternal instincts could have picked up a few instances that Demetri was inherently suspicious, yet you chose to ignore those instincts."

" _I'm aware_." Sylvia hissed.

"If I was your husband," said Tetch coolly, "I doubt I would be able to stay with a woman who let all that happen. You saw danger, you chose to ignore it. That kind of toxicity…that type of negligence…I would not be able to trust you ever again."

Sylvia frowned and muttered, "Is that what you think Oswald feels?"

Tetch said softly, "You are the reason your child is dead. Tell me, Sylvia. If your husband allowed all of this to happen, and was the reason your daughter died, would _you_ be able to stay with him?"

Sylvia opened her mouth to speak and her voice faltered as she whispered, "No…"

"Well," Tetch sighed. "I suppose if you do make it out of this, Mrs. Cobblepot, I hope you and Mr. Cobblepot find a way through this tragic ordeal." He looked at his watch, saying, "I hate to cut this tea time short, but our Guest of Honor should be arriving promptly. Dumfree!"

Dumfree appeared inside the room, glancing at Sylvia, who was a crying mess, then to Tetch, unaffected.

"Please take Mrs. Cobblepot to the other room. Not the bathroom or this room, but to another room." Tetch said. "And please remember to lock the door. We can't have my retainer escaping beforehand."

"Sure thing, Boss."

As before, Sylvia didn't move much. The minion simply carried her from one room to the next, sat her on the floor, and then locked the closet behind him. A broom handle was poking her in the shoulder and Sylvia couldn't even bring herself to move the damn thing. If ever she felt so helpless, this was it.


	19. A Chance To Leave Her

Chapter Nineteen: A Chance To Leave Her

 **Author's Note** : 2/17/2019: So, yes, it did pain me to kill Csilla Cobblepot. I just remind everyone here, again, that this _is_ a story. I appreciate the time my readers have invested in this thing but telling me to 'kill myself' because of a story, it's really uncalled for. Just saying.

That said, this chapter is a little more lighthearted.

' _We are all the pieces of what we remember. We hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss.'_

 _Cassandra Clare,_ City of Heavenly Fire

In the time that passed, Sylvia couldn't bring herself to escape that broom closet. It wasn't the first time she had been locked in one of these things. Despite being handcuffed, and her legs being tied up with rope, if she had really wanted to escape, she'd have found a way.

But grief was a powerful thing. And Tetch had used her guilt as a weapon; he'd planned on making her as useless to Jim as possible; and by god, he'd succeeded. Her heart was breaking; her mind was jumbled—yes, she was useless to Jim, to everyone at this point.

The smell of the impending death might drive someone crazy; the smell of ammonia, just slightly acrider. A broom closet that was stocked with cleaning agents, to include bleach and glass cleaner. The smell of both products made her nose crinkle with a discomfort.

This small discomfort. It made her smile.

Forget that her life was in danger (again), or that Vale or Lee was about to die (and if not them, then _her_ life was about to end)—but the one thing that was actually causing her to live a little was that overpowering smell of cleaning products. Granted, she didn't feel as suffocated as she might have been if she had been stuffed inside a Green House.

Sylvia wriggled on her back, holding her hands in front of her as she struggled to sit up. At least they'd left enough links between the cuffs for her to have some movement between her hands.

Tetch was certain he had psychologically broken her. Well, perhaps Sylvia wanted to die now more than ever, but first, she was going to have him begging her for his life.

The broom closet had a few shelves. She reached up to grab one and steadily hoisted herself up, standing on her feet.

If Lee's boyfriend wasn't getting home any time soon, they weren't left with many options of rescue. And if Tetch had any intention of driving Jim insane—which he probably had nearly succeeded by now, whatever might've been left at the Power Plant to bring him closer to that point—the death of either Vale, Lee, or herself included, would be enough to do just that.

Rescue wasn't imminent.

Sylvia looked around, smiling when she found some scissors. She started cutting the rope—the handcuffs, she could work with; her legs needed to be freed, first. As she worked the scissors through the rope, her mind wandered to what Tetch had said.

His suggestion was implied, of course. Sylvia and Oswald's marriage had survived everything that had been thrown at them: Theo Galavan in general; Gertrud's death; Oswald's imprisonment in Arkham; even the small hiccup when Oswald was suspicious of her and Edward Nygma. She and Oswald had been through a great deal, but Csilla's murder was not something either of them could have foreseen.

And if Tetch's hypothetical had been true, was it possible for her and Oswald to stay together after this?

"He blames me," Sylvia mumbled, grinding the blades against the rope. It was slowly splitting its ties, but just that. "I wouldn't want to stay with me either."

It was about thirty minutes, maybe…perhaps longer? Sylvia felt the last of the rope give, and it snapped off. The tape was easy enough to cut, and once she was freed, she stood and stretched her legs.

Damn, she had missed being able to pose as Wonder Woman!

"Who knew that was a luxury," Sylvia murmured. She glanced down at her wrists, grimacing when the metal cuffs had started to cut into them. Beads of blood lined her wrist bones. "Fuck it. I probably deserve that anyway."

She put her ear to the door. Listening.

Eerie silence…

It was quiet.

Until…

 _BANG_!

Gun fire.

And then it was silent again.

Sylvia twisted the knob, wringing it, trying to get it open.

Had Jim chosen! Who did Tetch kill!?

"Jim!" Sylvia shouted. " _Jim_!"

She banged on the door. She'd even tried kicking it down. She growled when her big toe started throbbing.

Reinforced wood. God _damn,_ Lee was in a good house!

"JIM!" Sylvia shouted. Then she paused. "LEE?!"

"SYLVIA!?"

"LEE?" Sylvia shouted. " **Lee**! I'm in here! In _here_!"

"Sylvia!"

"IN YOUR BROOM CLOSET!"

There was a sudden _thud_ where it sounded as though Lee had hit the door.

"I'm in here!" Sylvia said loudly. "Tetch locked me in!"

"Hold on, hold on, I'll get you out!"

There was a tinkering of the door and then it opened. Lee looked completely done in, and she glanced at Sylvia, who was standing, smiling up at her.

"What happened?" Sylvia asked as Lee took her hand and pulled her through the dining room. " _Where's Tetch_!"

And her answer came shortly.

Jim was knelt down on the floor, holding Vale; blood was pouring out of her stomach. Lee stepped by her, picking the phone back up as she continued to speak to whomever was on the other line—the ambulance, most likely. Jim looked up to see Sylvia, kneeling down. He briefly noticed the handcuffs, but Sylvia ignored him; she took Vale's hand in hers.

"You're going to be fine, Vale." Sylvia said softly. "You're going to be fine. Stay with us, okay? Stay with us."

"He shot her," Jim said weakly.

"I know."

"I didn't—I couldn't stop him—"

"It's not your fault, Jim," Sylvia whispered. She turned her attention to Vale and said gently, "It'll be okay…"

The ambulance burst through the room. Four men in their EMT gear filed through, holding a stretcher. In a matter of a minute, they'd hoisted Vale on the gurney, strapped her in place and started wheeling her towards the front door to the ambulance parked outside; following her were Jim and Lee, who called after her, "Mario's in the bathroom! Could you get—"

"I got him!" Sylvia assured.

She quickly moved down to the basement, smiling when she saw an axe there. When she came back up and kicked down the bathroom door, Sylvia met eyes with a tall, dark, and handsome youth who was allegedly this Mario, Lee's boyfriend. He was chained up as she'd expected; seeing Sylvia in handcuffs, Mario peered at her with wide eyes.

"Are you Mario?" Sylvia asked.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm getting you out of here." Sylvia answered. "You might want to step aside as far as possible."

"Oh…Oh!" Mario quickly did as she advised.

"You and Lee?" Sylvia asked; she grunted as she brought the axe down and in one go, Mario was freed.

"Yeah."

"Cool. How good are you with an axe?"

"I'm decent." Mario said modestly.

"Do you think you can cut these?" Sylvia asked, holding up her wrists, indicating the cuffs.

Mario stared at her.

"Well, that's all I needed." She said with a low whistle. "Got a car? The ambulance just left."

"Sure. Follow me." Mario said, gesturing to her.

Sylvia followed him to the front of the house; on the way out, he grabbed his wallet and keys from a small end table under the coat rack, giving a second glance at Sylvia, who followed him out. Once the car was unlocked, he gestured to the passenger seat; she slid in, and closed her door.

Mario demanded worriedly, "Is Lee in that ambulance?"

"Yep."

"Is she hurt?"

"No, she's not." Sylvia answered. Once they were on the road, she glanced at him, asking, "So…Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Don Falcone?"

"...What?"

"You and Falcone have a lot of the same features. Same eyes, same nose, same…" Sylvia's voice trailed off, smiling. "Are you Falcone's kid?"

Mario let out a small laugh, "Most people don't connect the dots on that one."

"Why, what name do you go by?"

"Calvi."

"'Mario Calvi'. Doesn't have the same ring to it. So, you _are_ a Falcone?"

"Yes." Mario answered slowly. He sent her a sideways glance. "Who are _you_?"

"Wow, it's been a while since I got _that_ one." Sylvia muttered. She held out her right hand; he shook it awkwardly with his own right. "Sylvia Cobblepot."

"You're—"

"Penguin's wife, yeah," Sylvia said quickly, smiling at him. "And before you get all high-horse on me, I'm also Jim Gordon's sister. I've heard enough from him so please keep the top-of-your-pedestal comments down to a minimum."

Mario smirked as he pulled into the parking lot for patients and said coolly, "My father mentioned you once or twice. I've never heard him refer to you as 'Sylvia'."

"I also go by 'Lark'." Sylvia said offhandedly with a half-shrug. Mario accepted that with an 'Aha' moment.

Mario got out of the car, pulling open Sylvia's door; she thanked him briefly before they both stormed inside the hospital. As they walked, Mario said curtly, "Your brother and Lee have quite the history together."

"Jealousy can help or hurt a relationship," said Sylvia, smiling at him.

"Who said I was jealous—"

"—No one—"

They stopped talking just as they rounded the corner.

Vale was being taken into the emergency surgery section; Lee and Jim were stopped at the doors, as the receiving staff insisted that only medical personnel were authorized from there on out. Comfortingly, Mario rounded them and said he would 'take it from here'; he left through the doors, into that room; Sylvia watched through the door-windows only for a second before the curtains were drawn.

She looked down at Jim and Lee, who sat together on one of the benches.

"She'll be fine." Lee assured. "She will, Jim."

"Yeah…" He returned, unconvinced.

Sylvia sat on the other side of Jim. She was quiet for the most part.

Lee leaned forward, glancing at her: "What did Tetch do to you when he took you out of the bathroom?"

"He talked." Sylvia answered quietly.

"What did he say?" She asked.

Sylvia smiled sadly, saying, "Nothing pleasant."

Silence befell them.

Jim, Lee, and Sylvia were given a brief look-over by the medical staff provided there.

Sylvia's wrists were bandaged; the stitches on her shoulder and leg from where Demetri had shot her were a little banged up, but with new bandages, it was easily rectified. The staff there recommended that she stay for a second hospital visit, but she immediately turned it down.

"I just want to go home," She said, and with Mario's doctor-written approval, they let her be.

As Sylvia gathered her things in a bag from her old room, a small knock on the door made her turn towards the sound. It was her brother.

"Hey." Jim said quietly.

"Hey."

"Do you have a minute?"

"After what happened, I'll give you ten."

"I'm going to close this door," Jim said awkwardly, doing as he said. The door closed with a small _click_ , barely audible over the loud intercom that was requesting doctors to certain rooms, _stat_.

Sylvia indicated the bed on which they both sat. For a moment, Jim just gazed at the ground; his expression more solemn than she could ever remember. A deeply set frown darkened her brother's facial features; his eyes almost bloodshot...whether that was from crying when he'd finally been left alone in his own room after having been checked out by the medical staff, or just hurting in general wasn't clear to Sylvia, but she wasn't about to ask; the day's events had left the both of them exhausted and spent.

"I'm sorry you were dragged into this," Jim told her finally, his voice hoarse and apologetic.

"Eh, I'm used to it."

"I suppose I'll be hearing from Oswald about this…?"

"I doubt it."

Jim raised his eyebrows in surprise: "You haven't called him?"

"Why should I?" Sylvia asked, closing her eyes, then rubbing them with two fingers tiredly. She looked at Jim solemnly, adding, "With the way he's been acting around me, I doubt he would care."

Jim looked at her, curious. His eyebrows furrowed, knitting into a crinkle on his forehead; he turned towards her, taking her hand in his.

"Why do you say that?" Jim asked.

"I told you." Sylvia muttered. "Things haven't been the same between us since her murder."

"Well, I don't expect it to be the same after all of that. But Oswald loves you. He cares if you're alive or if you've died."

"You're more optimistic than me, then."

Jim stared at her. He looked at the door, then back at her.

"What the hell did Tetch say to you?" he asked darkly.

"What do you mean?"

"You _do_ know Oswald cares for you, right?"

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Tetch had a few good points—"

"Tetch is _insane_."

"But he _is_ right."

"About what!"

"Me!" Sylvia snapped. She stood, gesturing to the window where Tetch had appeared the first time. "I knew it too, but he finally said what I was thinking the entire time. If Oswald had been the reason Csilla had died, I wouldn't want to stay with him! I couldn't even look at him, never the less care about anything anymore. I know how _I_ would feel. What makes you or anyone else think that Oswald doesn't feel the same way!"

"Vee," Jim said patiently as he stood and rested his hands on her shoulders. "Tetch is a psychopath. He blames his sister's death on me, and he wanted _you_ to suffer for it as well. Whatever he said to you is _not_ the truth."

"Fuck the truth! He's right! I can read people, but not _my_ people. And it doesn't make a difference; even if Oswald still loves me, even if we choose to stay together after all of this, who's to say that this all won't happen again with our next child? Or the one after that?!"

Jim frowned. He couldn't get through to her. He lowered his hands, taking them off her. She crossed her arms, turning away to stare out the window.

"I did a terrible thing." Sylvia whispered sadly. She turned to Jim.

"You didn't do anything. Demetri did."

"I let it happen."

"That's Tetch talking."

"That's _me_ talking." Sylvia corrected.

"You can't blame yourself for what happened."

"I can't?" She questioned sharply.

"You're feeling guilty over something that wasn't your fault."

"So maybe I'm not guilty. But I do have regret." Sylvia argued. "Regret that I let that fucking weasel live when I could have just let him bleed to death on my carpet in my office. I should've let him die—I shouldn't have called any fucking ambulance. It would have been for the betterment of her life as well as everyone else's."

She put her head against the window, and for a second was welcomed with relief. The cold glass against her hot face. With her eyes closed, she, for just a minute, could feel solace in isolation. She felt Jim's presence close to her; his hand on her back as he pulled her into a hug.

"I'm starting to hate this city." Sylvia mumbled into his chest.

Jim let out a wry chuckle, "I understand."

When Sylvia came home, it was close to midnight. She quietly closed the door, and walked through the living room, flipping the switch.

When she came back from the kitchen, the living room was completely illuminated with artificial light. Peering up, she was startled, nearly dropping her glass of tea she had carried on her way back.

Oswald was sitting on the couch, waiting.

He had long ago dressed down into pajamas and appeared to have been sitting, deep in thought. His hair was matted down slightly, not to its usual fluffy, stylish array when he was in his suits.

"Why are you still up?" asked Sylvia.

"I was asleep for a short time," Oswald answered calmly, gesturing behind him in the direction of their bedroom. "I woke up, couldn't go back to sleep."

"So, what, you've just been sitting in the dark?"

"Thinking, mostly."

Sylvia licked her lips, suddenly nervous. Her conversation she'd had with Tetch and most recently with Jim was coming back to haunt her. Well, there was no better a time to discuss it than in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm, was there?

"Thinking, huh." She managed, her voice becoming hoarse.

 _Damn you, nerves._

"Where have you been?" asked Oswald.

She sat beside him.

She inwardly winced when she felt the same feeling from him. That standoffish aura. It was as though they were more estranged than she'd previously understood. Normally, he'd have wrapped an arm around her shoulder or pulled her to him; he hardly ever wanted to be so far away from her. Instead of doing either of those things, he simply acknowledged her close presence with a veiled gaze; a shadow of concern grazing the surface of his facial expressions, but a shadow only.

Sylvia took a drink from her glass, sitting it on a coaster on the coffee table in front of them.

"Were you at your club?" Oswald asked.

"No." She answered. "For a moment, I was pulled into one of Jim's usual shenanigans."

"What do you mean?"

Sylvia inwardly smiled. Was it distasteful for her to feel grateful that his standoffish behavior seemed to flicker at the sound of her possible endangerment?

"I was at the hospital for a brief time," Sylvia answered, "Because of…well…"—She hastily indicated the wounds received from Demetri— "and then Jervis Tetch kidnapped Valerie Vale, Leslie Thompkins, and myself for his use and purposes in this twisted game he had ready for Jim."

Oswald's eyes widened, staring at her as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sylvia held up her wrists, showing the bandaged work.

"I was handcuffed, had my legs bound with rope, and I was taken to Lee's house. Tetch and I had a _wonderful_ conversation about you and me, and our daughter, and then I was thrown into a broom closet," Sylvia said sarcastically, "where I waited to see just whom Tetch was going to kill, if not myself then it was going to be either Jim's current girlfriend or his ex-fiancée. Vale was shot, was taken to the ambulance; my wrists were bandaged, then I was discharged, and here we are."

Oswald blinked, opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him.

"Honestly," Sylvia said quietly, "I don't think there's much to say between us anymore."

He nodded in agreement: "I suppose not."

They sat in silence for a minute or two before she turned to him completely, both gaze and body.

"I'm going to propose something to you," Sylvia said softly. "There's no easy way for me to put it so, you know me, I'm going to be as brutally honest as possible. Okay?"

Oswald gestured for her to continue.

"I know you blame me for Csilla's murder. I'm not the one that pulled the trigger, but I saw danger several times before this, and I ignored it. I thought I was doing what was best for everyone, but I should've been more alert. Instead, I was naïve." Sylvia said, looking down at her hands; it was hard to look him in the eye. "You probably hate me for what has happened, so if you think we will not be able to move forward, I can understand—"

"Sylvia, stop. Look at me."

She looked up at him, startled by his abrupt interruption. He sighed quietly, like he was gathering his thoughts.

"Where is all of this coming from?" He asked.

"Tetch talked to me, Oz. And he was right. I _am_ responsible. I killed our daughter—I am the _reason_ she is not with us anymore. She's gone because of _me_. If I was in your position, I wouldn't want to be with me anymore, I wouldn't want to—"

"Stop talking."

She looked at him reproachfully. Oswald took her hand in his. The softest touch from him made Sylvia's entire body light up with warmth.

"I don't know what all Tetch said to you." He said darkly. "Honestly, I don't _want_ to know."

"Oswald…"

"There is a part of me that blames you for what happened, but the guilt you have is not yours alone to bear, Pigeon."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side curiously, saying, "You don't want to leave me?"

"No. I don't."

"But you've been so distant…"

Oswald explained, "Perhaps, I may have been more distant than needed. Over time, I've learned to cope with grief by investing a lot of time in my work. Late nights in the office…"

"…Early _mornings_ in the office," Sylvia guessed.

"Exactly," he said, nodding with a small smile. "Frankly, I couldn't ever bring myself to leave you, Pidge."

"Really…?"

"I've learned to depend on you a great deal." Oswald told her gently. "We've been through a lot together."

Sylvia allowed herself to smile: "That's an understatement. I guess I've learned to depend on you in the same way."

There was a small moment of silence between them.

"So…Are we okay?" Sylvia asked quietly.

"We will be."

"How exactly do we get through this, Ozzie?"

He shrugged, and said sincerely, "We'll find a way."

She rubbed her head, muttering, "I have a headache."

"I'd be more surprised if you didn't have one."

"Perhaps you're right."

"Did they catch Tetch?" Oswald asked curiously.

"Of course not. He escaped."

"Well, that's unacceptable."

"Quite." Sylvia agreed.

As a point of concern, Oswald asked, "Is Vale going to be alright?"

"I think she'll pull through. For a reporter, she's a tough cookie. Her dad was a cop."

Oswald gathered this information and he looked her over briefly. She leaned forward towards the coffee table, taking her tea so she could take a few drinks. She offered it to Oswald, who took it gratefully and took a few drinks from it as well; then he handed it to her.

"I met Falcone's son today." Sylvia told Oswald smoothly.

"Did you, now."

"Mm-hmm. 'Mario Calvi' AKA 'Mario Falcone'. I guess he changed his name so people wouldn't connect the dots." Sylvia mused.

"How were you introduced to him?"

"Just as 'Mario'. He looks a lot like Carmine though. Yet, not much resemblance between him and his sister, I have to say."

Oswald stared at her, asking, "When did you meet Falcone's daughter?"

"Some months ago, when I went South to the beach." Sylvia explained. "Talked to Zsasz there, and I just happened to run into the daughter. Didn't say much to her. She and Mario look a little alike."

"Does the daughter resemble much of Carmine?" He asked conversationally.

"She looks more like his mother." Sylvia said after a moment's thought. "Lips, eyes…basically her entire face."

Oswald sighed, "Is there any reason I should be concerned?"

"None in the slightest. Mario doesn't seem like he wants anything to do with Gotham. Just its hospitals…and the GCPD's M.E. He's Lee's boyfriend."

"And that brings us to James Gordon."

"He's not doing so well." Sylvia said, shrugging. She added, "He blames himself for what Tetch did to Vale."

Oswald leaned back into the couch, his face deep in thought. There was a moment's pause where he seemed to put two-and-two together where, then, he faced Sylvia.

"Jim blames himself for Tetch shooting Vale? Why?"

"Honestly, it was a 'damned if I do, damned if I don't' issue. If he chose for Tetch to kill Vale, he'd have killed Lee. Jim chose Lee, so Tetch tried to kill Vale."

"And if he had chosen neither?"

"Then Tetch would have killed me." Sylvia responded, her voice almost strained. She rubbed her neck, adding, "I was Tetch's retainer. That's why he kidnapped me."

Oswald scoffed, "Gotham is constantly in chaos."

"Maybe it's not Gotham." Sylvia reasoned. "Maybe it's just me."

He looked at her incredulously, saying, "What are you talking about?"

"People always tell me that I've got my work cut out for me: being your wife, and Jim's sister. I think you've got _your_ work cut out for you half the time: you worry about the empire, you have to worry about the city now that you're the mayor; you have Jim, and the rest of the GCPD seemingly knocking at your door, and then you have me. With all of that considered, you are a very, very, very, very, _very_ busy man." Sylvia told him pointedly.

Oswald questioned, "So what's your point?"

"I doubt this is what you signed up for."

Realizing what she was getting at, Oswald said sternly, "Sylvia, listen to me. You are one of the most stubborn employees I've ever had, not to mention the most insubordinate out of all of them. And for chaos sake, you _somehow_ get pulled into whatever it is that your brother is getting involved with, and if some madman or Jim isn't pulling you into it, you're jumping in headfirst when there's just a slight chance that Jim won't be able to handle whatever-it-is he's up against."

Sylvia couldn't help but smile as Oswald steadily started gesticulating more as he spoke.

"And," Oswald continued, "I've never had to answer to so many complaints from any of the Families simply due to your behavior in general. You're consistently showing up at the house with new injuries" (He gestured specifically to her wrists) "and have proven to be one of the most impetuous women I've ever had to deal with in my entire life."

Oswald smiled in spite of it, saying, "I _knew_ what I signed up for when I asked you to marry me. Of all the things I've ever done—of all the decisions I've ever made, I have not once regretted that one."

Sylvia leaned forward and kissed his cheek, saying, "That's really fucking sweet, Ozzie. Thank you."

She drank the rest of her tea and licked her lips, muttering, "The last of it was pretty grainy. I think I put too much sugar in it."

Oswald snorted, finding humor in her facial expression.

"I think I'll go to bed." Sylvia sighed, standing up. She walked around the couch, lightly leaning against the back of it. "Planning on burning the midnight oil?"

"For a few more minutes, yes."

"Don't stay up too long."

"I won't."

"I love you, Ozzie." Sylvia said gently. She leaned over the back of the couch, and kissed his cheek.

He turned his head just a tad so her kiss landed on his lips, and he returned the kiss just as tenderly.

"And I, you."

Sylvia smiled at him, her face became hot. Flushed. She saw his small sly smile and she quickly hurried up the stairs, knowing he'd relish her flustered reaction for a time before he came back to bed.


	20. When He Fell In Love

Chapter Twenty: When He Fell In Love

* * *

'Does anyone remember the time and day when they fell in love with someone _?'_

 _It wasn't the first time this thought happened across Oswald's mind. And it was a question to which he most certainly had an answer._

 _The first time the thought came to him was when he had first seen Sylvia Gordon. Gotham was younger and, yet, had still been the same. Much like he had been._

 _He remembered the first time he had seen her._

 _There hadn't been anything particularly special about her appearance that had drawn him in. At the time, she hadn't worn any specific jewelry; no amount of heavenly light shined down on her to emphasize an unearthly, heavenly signal that she was 'the one'._

 _To Oswald's knowledge, she hadn't said anything memorable to him—not that it had been a fault of hers; in fact, she could have finely tuned out every single person in the crowded library with ease._

 _Even then, as he followed her movements with his own subtle gaze, there was something about her that mesmerized him. For reasons he couldn't explain, he was simply drawn to her. Like a moth to a flame._

 _Men and women alike sat beside her. She didn't award them with a single glance of acknowledgement. Perhaps in her mind, she was the only one in the library. Not even the boisterous children in the corner named ironically '_ Reading Time' _disrupted her deep concentration; the disruptive library guests who spoke too loudly on their cell phones as well as the harsh typists on their rented desktops were just as easily ignored._

 _She carried with her to a wooden study table, a large encyclopedia. On the front cover, there had been a collage of animals: giraffes, apes, reptilian creatures, jungle/forest beasts, aquatic life, as well as arctic._

 _Oswald smiled to himself, as he remained hidden behind a bookshelf. He'd moved some books to the side, preferring to watch her as he camouflaged his stature behind them rather than choosing to make himself known as some more daring and bolder men had attempted to do._

 _To his satisfaction, the men who had approached her with their array of pick-up lines were immediately rebuffed; she sent them on their way without so much as an apology. While it made Oswald glow on the inside to see that she had standards, it also intimidated him. If a man of significant proportion could assemble the affluence to approach such a confident woman as Sylvia appeared to be and be immediately rejected without so much as a 'hello, goodbye, no thanks' response, who was Oswald to think that he, too, wouldn't be given the same icy treatment._

 _Because of this, he'd preferred to stay hidden. Had he been proud of this decision, of course not. In fact, to this day, he still beat himself over the head—had he known that Sylvia would have been the one chasing_ him _, his past self might've been a little more confident, perhaps even bolder._

 _Oswald had watched her though. Choosing to stay hidden behind the bookstand as he admired her through the vacant shelf._

 _She curled one of her ginger locks around a single finger, a small smile tugging the corner of her mouth as she turned the pages of the book to whichever chapter had captured her attention._

 _What could envelope a woman's attention so completely? He had to know. As luck would have it, Sylvia had appeared startled and, with annoyance, she had answered her vibrating cell phone. Whomever it had been that had called her had drawn her out of the public library; she had never returned._

Serendipity _, he thought. That's what it had been._

 _He walked over to the table, noticing that she'd left the pages open. And to his glee, he was met with a chapter exclusively written about arctic and aquatic life: specifically, penguins._

 _Oswald had mixed feelings about the bird; while having been compared to one for the general part of his life—perhaps it was the harsh contrast of his pale skin to the dark raven hair he'd inherited from his mother—and having felt resentful of the creature because of it, there was a sudden feeling of gratitude._

 _He had a moderate liking for birds. And he was pleased to see that Sylvia shared that interest._

 _Oswald was certain that at the library, exactly around five in the evening that he had become drawn to Sylvia. He'd fallen in love with her without understanding and without knowing, and all at once._

* * *

As he did every Friday night since having given the club to his intended, Oswald was in attendance at _Lean on Vee's_ to watch Sylvia perform. Normally, she had a few dancers in the background doing a little sway, doing a little background singing, but ever since Demetri's betrayal, she had let the extra dramatic touch of her performance lie dormant.

A pianist and a flutist had been hired, and per Oswald and Sylvia's addition to the hiring process, the musicians had been searched for weapons of any kind as well as their references double checked, and criminal backgrounds rehashed in the interviewing process.

The goal was to weed out betrayal early, but even this wouldn't guarantee 100% loyalty—Not that either of them expected that.

Oswald's fond memory of seeing Sylvia for the first time had triggered a surge of guilt for as he felt the same pull towards Sylvia, he, in addition to that, now had the same for his Chief of Staff, Edward Nygma.

' _Does anyone remember the time and day when they fell in love with someone'_ Oswald thought once more. He remembered when he'd fallen for Sylvia. And, as luck would have it, he knew when he suddenly wanted more from his friendship with Ed.

The man had, without expecting anything in return, turned the case of the Red Hood Gang inside and out, revealing Butch Gilzean as the real leader of them all, and nearly died after exposing Butch for his crime against Gotham. Luckily, thanks to Sylvia's intervention, he had been revived.

That night, Ed had spoken the words that Oswald had heard only from his mother and Sylvia: 'You should know, Oswald, that I would do anything for you. You can count on me.' From that moment, he felt something more for his friend.

And, in turn, he felt a certain weight of guilt. He loved Sylvia dearly; no one could protest that. But he loved Ed too. He didn't want to lose her; was it such a bad idea that he wanted his cake and eat it too? It sounded extremely perverse when Oswald thought of it that way, but…Still, that didn't change how he felt.

He'd tell Sylvia tonight, he thought. He'd do it after her performance on stage; she was singing a famous aria written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: ' _Die Zauberflöte (_ Magic Flute _) K. 620 Act 2:_ _Der Hölle Rache Kocht in Meinem Herzen_ '.

Oswald glanced over his shoulder to see that her bouncers and half-time bruisers, Dagger and Chilly, were still around. To his surprise, despite their incompetence to meet Sylvia's standards for employment, the women who called themselves Salt and Pepper, and the Joel and Jack twins were still gainfully employed; they frequently helped out at the counter as bartenders or servicers.

He returned his gaze to the stage, smiling to himself when Sylvia met every note with distinguished timing and beautiful pitch. Her vibrato was tamed; and each time she hit the soprano note, the hairs on his neck would stand on its end, tingling.

" _She's such a beautiful singer."_

Oswald heard the voice, recognized it immediately. He happily exchanged a smile with Edward Nygma, who pulled out a chair to sit beside him.

Suddenly, the air was just a little too thick but not in such an unpleasant way.

"What are you doing here?" asked Oswald curiously. "Is everything alright?"

"Naturally, yes." Ed answered with ease. "I just came by to let you know that the package was delivered."

"'Package'?"

"The one specifically intended for Mickey The Nail."

"Ah, _that_ package." Oswald said, nodding once he understood his meaning. "No one was injured, I hope?"

"No one that matters," Ed said callously.

Salt, the paler version of her spiced counterpart, approached the table with a pen and notepad, asking Ed if he wanted anything to drink. Ed waved his hand, politely declining; he watched the woman leave, sitting on a pew in front of Pepper, a woman whose skin was dark and soft-looking as milk chocolate.

Perplexed, he leaned into Oswald, asking, "I thought Sylvia dismissed them."

"As performers, yes," Oswald told him, glancing at her employees with little interest.

"Why does she keep them around?"

"I honestly have _no_ idea. Maybe she finds them useful enough to employ them as bartenders and waiters."

"Do you think they're loyal enough?"

He and Oswald exchanged knowing looks.

"Even if they're not loyal," Oswald reasoned, "There aren't many people in Gotham who are adamant about staying employed. A third of the town's population are miscreants, looking for handouts."

"Coming from the Mayor, that's discouraging."

"Look not at the truth, but at the numbers, friend."

"The truth _is_ in your numbers. Crime is down, at least. You've certainly turned the tides." Ed said, smiling at the stage as he added, "Gotham has seen worse days under Aubrey James. Speaking of which, he sends you his regards."

Oswald glanced at him incredulously, a slight flicker of concern clutching at his heart until Ed explained that his small run-in in with James had resulted in minimal hostility.

"The man is bitter," Ed stated, "but he's not the type to physically intimidate."

Oswald said sheepishly, "I'm glad to hear it. I'd be more disappointed if you allowed him to intimidate you in the first place."

" _You'd_ be disappointed?" Ed returned playfully. "I'd be disappointed in _myself_ if I allowed such a pathetic excuse for a human being to scare me. Besides, he seemed sincere enough, which I found suspicious."

"I wouldn't be too wary of him. His reputation is ruined after the campaign; he hardly has enough credit to his name to keep what few followers he has left. I've not seen Mrs. James leave her house."

"She tried to embarrass Sylvia while she was under hypnosis. She inadvertently exposed herself. If I was in her position, I wouldn't want to leave my house either."

Oswald said mischievously, "Mrs. James should have known better."

"Undoubtedly," Ed agreed. "If anything, she pushed Sylvia into a better light."

"No argument there," Oswald returned, and Ed snickered alongside him.

At the bar, Salt and Pepper were arguing about something and their raised voices created a slight disturbance among the guests before Chilly and Dagger approached them, exchanging aggressive whispers. Whatever the two bruisers had said to the women apparently extinguished the argument; as Sylvia sang without interruption, the guests in _Lean on Vee's_ slowly turned their attention back to her and away from the staff.

Disgruntled, Oswald muttered, "It's so hard to find good help these days."

Ed agreed, "I can't argue that. Maybe Sylvia knows this. Maybe that's why she hasn't pitched those four out the door just yet."

They watched the finale of Sylvia's aria come to a close to which she was met with a standing ovation; Oswald and Ed, included, stood and clapped. When the applause had subsided, the flutist and Sylvia shook hands, and the former left the stage to get a drink (Compliments of the House if Sylvia's generosity hadn't been completely diminished by Demetri's betrayal); the pianist remained. As Ed and Oswald sat down, Sylvia started to perform another aria, the beginning of her song was met with appreciative claps and a small but hyped whistling from Salt and Pepper.

Ed chuckled, "Good help is hard to find, I agree. I suppose one can only go through so many worthy applicants before striking the bottom of the barrel. Maybe that's why she keeps them around."

"Who?"

"The condiments, and the twins," Ed clarified. He said jokingly, "Your mind is all over the place, Oswald. Is everything alright?"

Oswald considered outing himself to Ed, just plainly and bluntly laying his cards down on the table and telling him what he was feeling, but that same irksome jolt that was holding him back had never been more stubborn, and persistent.

In substitution for the confession, Oswald downplayed his distraction saying, "I'm just a little tired. After all, it's just as we've discussed: Finding competent help is difficult, and exhausting."

"Maybe it's not the competence of the help that makes the hiring process difficult; maybe Sylvia's standards are simply too high."

Oswald glanced at the stage, smiling again when Sylvia hit the perfect sequence of pitches; he felt goosebumps when she sang.

He said coolly, "Sylvia's standards are just fine."

Ed placed a hand on Oswald's wrist; the simple gesture sent another array of goosebumps along his arms, but it wasn't Sylvia's doing this time.

Ignorant to his friend's infatuation, Ed said lightly, "I'd love to stay for the encore, but I have a few things to finish up at the office before the day is out. Do you mind?"

"Of course not." Oswald said almost immediately.

Ed bowed his head respectfully, sent him a small smile, and then he left shortly after. Oswald watched after him, perplexed, and then returned his gaze back to Sylvia; he was a bit taken aback.

Taken aback because he saw it. Even as she sang with her lips parted to match the syllables that the aria demanded, there was a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes meeting his.

God, the guilt seemed to suffocate him.

Oswald cleared his throat uncomfortably, glancing around to see if anyone else was suffering from the same unpleasantness but it seemed that the remainder of the gallery were preoccupied. He was beside himself.

If he didn't tell Sylvia about how he felt for Ed right after her performance, Oswald doubted he would be able forgive himself. Especially if she already knew, as he suspected. He couldn't deny her that, at least.

For better or worse, Sylvia knew him. She knew when he was envious (" _Your jealousy is showing")_ and, in turn, Oswald could detect when something was bothering _her_. They knew each other so well, they could convey their irksome thoughts in a single look, a touch, a gesture.

He'd be a fool to think he could hide his feelings for Ed from her for so long. Even now, he was making a fool of himself even _thinking_ of thinking of hiding them.

 _Tonight_ , Oswald thought. _Tonight_ , _I'll tell her_.

Maybe she'll understand?

 _Maybe_.


	21. Oswald Tells Sylvia

Chapter Twenty-One: Oswald Tells Sylvia

* * *

Once she'd finished singing her last aria, Sylvia left the pianist on the stage to perform a few pieces of his own. The flutist had returned to accompany the pianist in a duet of sweet harmony. While her office was on the same floor as her balcony, she could still hear the music and guests' chatter rising from the ground level. She closed the door behind her, walking to the opposite wall of the entrance where she always kept two half-glasses and a bottle of whiskey, ready to pour.

She'd been singing in front of that type of crowd for nearly two years and even on a good day when she met each pitch perfectly, her nerves were mangled by the end. It wasn't until she'd finished pouring herself a drink when she realized she'd never heard the door to her office _click_ shut.

Peering up from her glass, she smiled when she saw Oswald.

"Hey!" She greeted.

"Hello yourself," Oswald returned, mirroring her smile. "You were phenomenal as usual. How are you feeling?"

"Relieved that it's over," Sylvia said half-seriously as she held up her drink indicatively, "as usual."

He steadily walked inside the office, closing the door a moment after. As he did, Sylvia watched him, briefly seeing how odd he was acting. There was a difference in the way he congratulated her, as though it was simply a segue to a much more serious conversation.

"What's wrong, Ozzie?"

He looked taken aback, as she'd seen him act when after he'd spoken to Ed. After Ed had left, Oswald had met her gaze, and he appeared just as startled by the question as he'd been when they made eye contact during her song. His expression wasn't dramatic by any means; in fact, if she hadn't known him so well, his subtle reaction would have likely gone unnoticed.

"Nothing is wrong."

"You're lying to me," Sylvia said; while her tone was permanently light, her smile was temporary.

"I'm not lying."

"You know, if it's about my performance, you _can_ give me some feedback. Constructive feedback can only lead to improvement where improvement is needed." Sylvia offered.

Oswald chuckled, happy to feel relieved that while she was sure her performance had been fantastic (as usual), she could break the tension with a joke.

But why did there need to be tension at all, Oswald wondered. He'd faced death numerous times—for Christ sake, he'd once been locked in a Sedan as a voracious machine attempted to crush him to death! And yet, he was more terrified of this woman than he'd ever been.

Apparently, his long pause was noticed. Sylvia cleared her throat quietly, drank a few sips from her cup, and then gestured for Oswald to sit in the chair in front of her desk as she sat on the edge of it, directly in front of him.

Their seated positions made Oswald smile just a little. They had one too many conversations like this, but rather, this was the first in which they had a conversation while Sylvia was in _her_ office; and he was merely a guest.

"What's wrong, Oswald?" She voiced once more, but her soft tone became more concerned.

"I have something to tell you, although, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure how to articulate it." He admitted, looking up at her.

"Does it have something to do with Edward Nygma?" She guessed.

Oswald stared at her.

She smirked, saying, "Well, your stunned silence is reassuring. I'm guessing I'm right?"

"Yes, but how…?"

Sylvia let out a cute giggle, not a sound that Oswald heard often. A wry chuckle, a sinister snicker, even the raucous laugh that came out when she watched someone get their ass handed to them: Yes, Oswald had heard plenty of those come out of her mouth. But this giggle was almost uncharacteristic.

"What's so funny?" Oswald asked defensively.

"You." She said, pointing to him with a gesture of her eyes. "You make me laugh without ever even trying."

Confused, a bit offended by her reaction, Oswald stood: "How am I being funny?"

Sylvia drank the last of the whiskey from her glass and placed it on the desk surface before she bounced her backside away from the edge; she wrapped her arms around his neck, a response that left Oswald even more confused than a moment ago.

"You forget that I _know_ you, sweetheart." Sylvia purred. "I know when you're angry, or when you're happy. I know when you're jealous, and…" She kissed his cheek. "I know when you've started having feelings for someone—in addition to myself."

Oswald stared at her, eyes wide. Still confused.

If she knew…Why wasn't she furious?

"Sylvia—"

"You're puzzled, aren't you."

"Very."

Sylvia released him from her silky embrace and she walked over to the wall where she refilled her drink. Oswald watched her, more or less keeping tabs on her liquid movements. If he'd been in her position, he'd have thrown one massive temper tantrum; the thought of _her_ with another man was enough to ruffle his feathers and make him murderous. But Sylvia knowing that Oswald liked Ed, and her acting so…calm…That made him a little more nervous.

"How long have you known?" Oswald asked.

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Only for a little while. Ever since he exposed Butch, you've been looking at him a little differently. Whenever he comes around, whenever he talks to you. You have that look."

"What look."

She smirked, saying, "The same one that for the longest time—up until now—you've only ever saved for me."

Well, wasn't this just a tad bit uncomfortable.

Oswald was beside himself. His face was hot; his hands were cold. There was a fleeting urge to take flight—just run past her, past her minions that were at the bottom of the staircase, and hopefully never talk about this ever again.

Sylvia, on the other hand, watched him like a predator minded its unwitting prey. What made him stand his ground so bravely was that in spite of her revealing that she'd known about his feelings for Ed, it was the way she was watching him.

She was watching him with—what was it? —Acceptance, perhaps? Acceptance, yes, but not surrender.

"I'm not angry," Sylvia said smoothly. "If that's what you're wondering."

"It's been on my mind for a minute…"

"Well, put your mind at ease: I'm not angry."

"If you're not angry, then…What are you feeling, exactly?"

Sylvia licked her lips thoughtfully, then placed her glass back on the surface. The small 'thud' of it meeting the contact point made Oswald flinch a little; why, he wasn't sure. Sylvia walked towards him, clasping her hands together and resting them on her lap.

"Shall I be blunt?"

Oswald sent her a look, saying, "When are you _not_ brutally honest, Pigeon."

"Fair point!"

"So…?"

"I think," Sylvia said softly, "that if you love Ed, you should go after him."

He stared at her. Did he hear her correctly?

"You're kidding." Oswald muttered.

"I'm serious as a shark attack."

"What about _us_?"

"What _about_ us?" Sylvia chuckled. "You love me still, don't you?"

Oswald didn't hesitate as he said quickly, "Of course I do!"

"Well, I love you too." She returned, smiling.

"I don't understand."

"Don't understand what?"

"This. _You_." Oswald said, gesturing to her emphatically.

"Well, how I see it, you're a man full of emotion and you have a lot of love to give," Sylvia told him gently. "You still love me a great deal, and I, of course, still love _you_ just as much—if not more. And, if you love Ed, you should see if he feels the same way."

"And if he does?"

"Well, then, what you're looking at is a polyamorous relationship." Sylvia reasoned. She kissed his nose, adding, "Kind of like what Butch, Tabitha, and Barbara had a long time ago…except, you know, not as muddy."

Oswald stared at her, still.

"How can you be okay with this?" He asked incredulously.

"Because I love you." Sylvia told him plainly. "And, if you remember, there was a point in time where I used to like Ed as more than a friend. I can see why you'd be attracted to him, sweetheart."

Oswald frowned, asking, " _You_ don't…?"

" _I_ don't want Ed, honey. _You_ do. I could love no other man but you. I don't want anyone else but you. So, if you and him became something more than friends, I'll still be over here, doing what I do best."

"And that is?"

"Killing anyone that may oppose your will, and watching you get all hot and bothered," Sylvia said mischievously. "Nothing will change except for the obvious: He'll still be the Mayor's Chief of Staff, and I'll still be _Penguin's_ Chief of Staff—as Victor so politely articulated that. Personally, I don't want to be anything more to Ed _than_ a friend."

"And you're alright with this…?" Oswald clarified.

"More than."

Oswald smiled when she brought her hands up so her arms were linked behind his neck. She looked up at him with a serene smile.

"You're one of the oddest women I've ever met," Oswald told her pointedly.

"Duly noted." She said with a wink. "Now, on a scale of one to ten with 'one' being calm and 'ten' being completely pissed scared, how afraid were you to tell me about Ed?"

Oswald didn't give her the satisfaction of answering, but he reckoned that Sylvia had an inkling.

"I have a favor to ask though," She said with an impish grin.

"What favor is that exactly?"

"If Ed _does_ return your feelings and you two have a nice romantic evening together, would you care if I watched?" Sylvia asked, smirking at him.

"As a guest at dinner?" Oswald asked, once more puzzled.

"As a guest in the bedroom." Sylvia purred. She caressed his face between the palms of her hands, adding, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a _little_ interested in seeing that."

When his face flushed a bright shade of pink, Sylvia snickered.

Now _that_ sound, Oswald had heard plenty of times before!

"I love watching you squirm," She whispered.

There was a knock on the office door; she and Oswald looked to see that it was Victor Zsasz. He was dressed in his usual fancy black garb, his thumbs hooked under the straps that holstered two of his reliable weapons; he didn't wait to be acknowledged; he was already halfway in the office as Sylvia and Oswald separated, glancing at one another knowingly.

Victor cracked a grin, noticing that his boss was blushing. However, he said to Sylvia, "Are you ready?"

Oswald glanced at Sylvia inquisitively.

Wordlessly, she walked behind her desk, opened a drawer, and she withdrew a Glock.

"We're going after Dolores Reese," Victor explained to Oswald. "Anything in particular you want us to do with her once she hands over her debt?"

"I don't have a preference, Victor."

"I'm sure _she_ does." The hitman drawled, grinning knowingly at Sylvia, as she came around the desk, loading her gun.

"Do you have any idea how long it has been since I killed anyone?" Sylvia questioned ironically.

"Well, I'm sure you have to let out a little steam after everything that has happened." Victor said offhandedly.

Sylvia and Oswald exchanged glances—while the two of them were trying to put the pieces back together after Csilla's burial, it wasn't easy to forget 'everything that had happened'.

"Oh, wow…" Victor muttered. "Guys, I didn't mean it like that."

"An apology from Victor Zsasz," said Sylvia, offering him a forgiving smile. "How touching."

"I'll just be…" Victor said quickly, gesturing behind him. He quickly left the office.

Sylvia turned to Oswald, who returned her knowing—but pained—expression.

"Well," He said quietly, "We can't simply _pretend_ that it never happened."

"If we did that, it wouldn't be healthy."

"Sylvia."

"Yes?"

Oswald took the gun from her, and placed it on the desk beside them. He took her hands in his, resting them on his chest. She watched him with earnest—anticipating what he might say, but dreading the worst.

"Be safe." He cautioned.

"I'm always careful."

"Dolores Reese _knows_ there is a bounty on her head, and she knows there's still a debt to collect. Someone who is prepared to deal with the likes of Zsasz and _still_ chooses to live in the woods without any armed assailants is someone I'd take seriously." Oswald told her.

"If you're so worried about me, darling...Come with me." Sylvia mewed, grinning at him. "Odds are, I'm just going to kill her. Especially if she doesn't plan on coming out of this alive—Having waited for Zsasz and me to come find her instead. She'll meet the same end as Ogden Barker..."

Oswald looked as though he might decline her offer but when she kissed his jawline, her lips lingering there a little too long, he reconsidered.

"I'll bring back-up. Pull the car around." He ordered.

Sylvia grinned: "Will do, Boss."

She kissed him with the intention of just giving a peck; she let out a soft gasp when he pulled her back into a deeper kiss.

"Sweetheart," she murmured against his lips.

"Hm?"

"I...I still need to get the car."

Oswald grinned, unabashed, and released her. A flush of pink dusted her cheeks and neck as she quickly left to do as he instructed.


	22. Road Trip

Chapter Twenty-Two: Road Trip

A/N: So, this chapter is _twenty-nine_ pages long, but it's probably one of my favorites. Thank you for your reviews and PMs, everyone. I appreciate it 😊

* * *

Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, readjusting the mirrors and the seat itself as Oswald took the passenger seat; in the back was Victor Zsasz; at first, it looked as though they were going to be the only ones coming onboard; the last two to occupy the rest of the car were surprisingly Jack and Joel—the twins.

Sylvia turned in her seat, glancing at them each.

"What the _fuck_ are you two doing here?" She questioned, pointing to them.

" _We wanted to come_ ," Jack and Joel said simultaneously.

"Absolutely not."

"Well," Jack began, "We wanted to prove—"

"—Ourselves," finished Joel. "We're more than just your bartenders and waiters, Lark. Let us prove ourselves!"

"No." Sylvia said sternly.

"We've been taking shooting courses," said Jack hopefully.

" _No_."

"And we've been doing some martial arts!" Joel said with a small smile. He held up his hands pointedly in what might have been the 'proper' sitting stance for a fight.

"Honestly, Liv," Victor said smoothly, "your people—what're their names again—Dagger and Chilly—didn't seem too thrilled to come, and as for _your_ man," (He gestured to Oswald indicatively) "Gabriel _kinda_ wanted to sit this one out."

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged incredulous glances, to which Oswald scoffed, "This is a mutiny; that is what this is."

He turned back in his seat, glaring at the windshield.

"I can teach them a lesson, if you want," Victor offered happily. "Hand them their walking papers…so to speak."

Jack and Joel traded uncertain expressions.

Sylvia, in the meantime, observed them with a hard stare.

"Who taught you how to shoot?" She questioned.

Jack answered: "Umm…."

"Who taught you how to fight?"

"Well…" Jack began.

"No one, I guess," said Joel.

"So, where the _fuck_ did you allegedly learn to do any of this?"

Together, they said obliviously, " _Self-taught_?"

Victor snickered, "You know, all hacky gimmicks aside, watching you lay into these poor kids has made this trip almost worth it."

" **Shut up, Victor**." Sylvia and Oswald snapped simultaneously, glaring at him.

Sylvia asked (more politely), "What did you tell Dagger and Chilly? Before they decided that they weren't going to do as I asked?"

"Simple: I said we're going after Reese. From an observational standpoint, she didn't seem to have any armed guards, but that's not to say it would be boring." Victor said, looking up at the roof of the car, before adding, "Should I have said the last part?"

"You shouldn't have said _anything_." Oswald told him unhappily. "They do what they're told—That's what they're being paid _to do_!"

Sylvia pointed at the hitman, saying harshly, "Bring Dagger and Chilly over here, **right now**."

Victor shrugged carelessly before getting out of the car, closing his door with a polite click, and then headed back into the club to do as Sylvia had so lovingly instructed.

Oswald watched Sylvia impressively as she, too, crawled out of the car; she opened the same door that Victor had only seconds ago closed and pointed at the ground, growling, "Outside! Now!"

Oswald smiled inwardly, watching Jack and Joel exit the car to stand in front of her, solemnly looking down at the ground. Curious to see what she was about to do, he got out of the car, choosing to take a seat on the hood.

Jack and Joel were twins, alright. Both 21, with the exception of Jack being about two minutes older. They were identical. If Jack stood in front of a mirror, there was a distinct impossibility of telling them apart from his actual twin. Both were the same height (standing a couple inches taller than Oswald himself); both brothers had dark brown hair, sharply cut jaw lines, clean-shaven faces, and had the same identically colored green irises.

"When I interviewed you two the last time for this kind of thing, neither of you had shot at anyone. Never held a _gun_. Which one of you said they hit somebody?" Sylvia questioned impatiently.

Jack held his hand up.

"Pretty sure you're lying, but that doesn't matter." Sylvia said, rolling her eyes. "Since you two _insist_ on joining our little rag-tag team, we're going to have a quick contest."

"' _Contest_ '?" They pipped simultaneously.

Instead of answering their puzzled response, Sylvia strolled over to Oswald; he watched her with a small sly smile as she brazenly took off her leather jacket, handing it to him. She also turned over her Glock, and pulled a knife from her boot.

"What exactly do you hope to accomplish, Lark?" Oswald asked, business-like, taking her jacket and effects as she handed them over to him.

"Business as usual, Penguin." Sylvia returned; her tone was so matter-of-fact, he might have felt a pleasant chill climb up his spine.

They traded familiar impish grins.

For the moment, it appeared that Sylvia was strictly conducting business. Standing in a tight ebony tank top and wearing black leggings with laced color-matching boots, Sylvia stood in front of the twins, looking like she was ready to start a fight.

The twins were silent, peering at each other uneasily before turning their focus back on her.

"Here's what's happening, you two." Sylvia said, pointing at them. "You think you've taught yourselves enough about martial arts to be a part of this" (a reference to the whole gritty scene that would take place at the Reese household) "then I think it's only fair that we take this small window of opportunity and put it to good use."

"Miss Lark—"

"Shut up!" She snapped, and effectively silenced both twins. "You may or may not know this but I was taught how to fight by a couple of people in my life. Two people, in fact. One of them is James Gordon; you know him. Fights fair, sporting, actually."

Jack and Joel smiled with a little hope in their eyes.

"Jim and I used to fight quite a bit when we were kids," Sylvia added. "Out of spite, out of jealousy, or just for the fuck of it. One time we got into it just because I stole his damn gummy bears."

She smirked back at Oswald, adding, "He never got them back, by the way."

Oswald shared a small laugh with her. She turned to look at the twins.

"I knew how to defend myself, but that was it. I found myself a teacher: a man, who was in the CIA for _years_ : A hand-to-hand combatant, a _skilled_ one. His name was Mr. Bell."

Mr. Bell had been her mentor for quite some time; before his unfortunate departure back to his family in Nebraska after discovering his terminal illness, Sylvia's role model of a father figure had taught her to fight—professionally and dirty.

Through his vigorous training, she had acquired unnatural super-strength. Despite being only five feet tall, she had been able to lift a man of Butch Gilzean's height and weight clear over her shoulders, and throw him into a wall.

Mr. Bell had left a lasting impression on her, it seemed.

A hard smile replaced Sylvia's soft one of reminisce as she held her hands up, ready to take them on.

"You want to prove your metal?" She dared. "This is your chance."

Jack and Joel looked at one another, uncertain at first. Seeing that Sylvia was likely not going to give them a second one, they reacted.

Jack and Joel were two people, but they seemed to move as one. Jack seemed to be the designee; his twin was more of a reflection of him. When Jack punched Sylvia on the left, Joel went for the right. It took about ten minutes of constant sparring during which the twins had several times been thrown to the ground or catapulted into each other before Sylvia hit the ground, rolling from her stomach to her back as she tasted rock and dirt.

The two gents were breathless, sweaty, and they'd gotten a few bruises, cuts, and scrapes; Sylvia, in the meantime, stood up with only a bloodied lip to show for their efforts. Oswald had watched, still impressed, but easily amused.

"Look at that!" Sylvia drawled. She used her forefinger to wipe her chin where blood had started rolling down and she held it up, surprised but satisfied.

She stepped towards the twins; they stepped back, dreading her resolve.

"I'm actually impressed!" She laughed, grinning widely.

" _Really_?" They spoke in unison.

" _Yes_. But you know, that's just _me_. I'm **one** person."

"'One person'," Jack repeated, "But you're not like other people."

"—You've been taught," said Jack.

"—You've been tutored—"

"—You're stronger—"

"— _And faster_."

Watching the twins talk, one after another, felt more like watching a tennis match than a couple of people. Perhaps they might have been telepathically linked, proving to be more than a myth about identical twins and their connection, but it was more likely that they just knew each other so well—knew what the other was about to say, and choosing to say it; and so on.

"With a little more tutoring, you could be too. Now, if you could only shoot worth a shit." Sylvia said offhandedly.

She reached into her pocket, pulling out a scrunchie and tied her hair up into a messy bun.

"Give us a chance!" Jack insisted, advancing towards her.

"We impressed you once already, haven't we!" Joel added emphatically.

" _We can show you what we know_!"

Sylvia glanced back at Oswald, who already held her gun out in reply. Sylvia took the gun from him.

"They know what they're doing it seems," Sylvia muttered.

"If you believe they can handle themselves at Reese's abode, you have my confidence." He told her coolly. "And, frankly, it's not to say that I am on their side but they have beenthe first to put you on your back."

"Excluding _you_ , of course." Sylvia said slyly.

"I thought you were going to be more professional this time around."

"You know me, Boss. I'm completely incapable of keeping it all business."

"It has literally only been an hour."

"Well, what can I say," Sylvia sighed. "My mind is a gutter. I think dirty, and I play dirty. I'm just plain filthy."

Oswald sent her a look of reprimand but she simply returned it with an innocent smile and walked back over to the twins, who watched her attentively. Despite his own articulation of keeping things professional, he couldn't suppress a dark smile that followed.

"Since Victor's going to take his sweet ass time bringing these people back, we're going to do one more go-around," Sylvia sighed. She released the magazine, and the bullets rolled into her palm.

"You, there—"

"—Jack—"

"Whatever," Sylvia said, rolling her eyes. "Come here. Right there—in front of me. Stand there."

Jack quickly did as he was told. Eagerly, he waited.

She asked, "Where did you learn to shoot?"

"My brother and I taught ourselves."

"Did you read a book on it?"

"…No…?"

Sylvia blinked: "Are you asking me or are you telling me?"

"Telling?"

"See, that still sounds like you're asking me a question. Did you read a book about guns? Did you watch a fucking DIY thing—Did you _watch_ someone **else** load a gun and fire it— _Where did you learn to shoot_."

"We just taught ourselves," Jack insisted. "At a shooting range."

"Where did you get a gun in the first place?"

"Dagger gave us one."

"Oh fun," Sylvia muttered. "He has time to give you and your brother guns but doesn't have time to do what I ask. _Lovely_. Too bad he didn't save me the time of teaching you about them."

"We know guns!" Jack insisted defensively.

"Do you, now." Sylvia retorted. She held out her own. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a handgun—"

Sylvia interrupted them: "This is a Glock; 18C, full-sized automatic pistol chambered in nine-millimeter. Holds at least seventeen rounds—you can always tweak it to hold more. It's capable of twelve-hundred rounds-a-minute in the right hands, which I highly doubt you _or_ your brother have because both of yours are trembling."

Jack and Joel stared at her, speechless.

Sylvia clicked her tongue, saying, "But that's not the fucking point, is it?"

"No…" They said.

"What is my point, Jack?"

"We don't know much about guns."

"Well, at least you guys are smart enough to get that point, huh. So, because it seems that Dagger and Chilly have either eluded Victor completely or he decided to stop by the bar for a quick night-cap," Sylvia said bitterly, "It appears you and your brother are going to be my only back-up. So, that said—I'm going to give you two a quick tutorial."

She gestured for Jack to come closer. He took two steps.

"Hold out your hand."

"Lark—"

"I'm not going to fucking slap you, but I will if I have to keep repeating myself, goddamn it. _Do as I say_!" Sylvia said, edgily.

Jack quickly held out his hands.

She poured the bullets in one; the gun and magazine was placed in the other.

"Load the magazine, ready your weapon, and then shoot—preferably at a tree and not at the car. Do it in under thirty seconds. Your time starts now."

Jack was suddenly fumbling; he dropped the bullets and the gun in one go. Started babbling some unintelligent words. Even though he knew his time had already run out, he still adamantly loaded the rounds, furiously sweating by the end of it. He held out the Glock; Sylvia took it, and she watched him fold, quickly walking back to where his brother stood, his tail tucked between his legs.

Sylvia stared after him.

"What the fuck are you doing, Jack?"

"…What?"

"Don't 'what' me; Did I dismiss you?"

"No... But I didn't get it in thirty seconds."

"Get back over here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jack looked at her sadly.

"Here." Sylvia said, unloading the weapon and handing both it and the bullets to him. Softly, she said, "Try again."

He fumbled this time, but not nearly as badly as he had done the first time. A few bullets dropped into the grass, but he was 15 for 17. And he shot a nearby tree.

"Not bad. Aim is a little iffy, but that'll come with time. Unload it," Sylvia instructed. "Do it again. After you've finished, give it to your brother. That way he can try it too."

"Yes, Miss Lark," said Jack dutifully; he quickly ambled over to his brother, and they both knelt down on one knee, somehow making a game of trying to load the weapon quicker than the other.

Sylvia watched them for a second before walking over to Oswald. She caught his expression.

She asked coolly, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're disappointed in me."

"I'm not disappointed."

"So, what's the problem?"

"You're doing it again," Oswald observed.

"Doing _what_?"

He explained, "You're investing time in your people."

"So, I am. So what?"

"And you're not worried?"

"Why should I be?" Sylvia asked defensively. "We did background checks on them."

"Did you do them personally?"

"No."

"Do you trust them?" Oswald asked.

"I don't know."

"And there it is."

"There is _what_?"

Oswald exhaled deeply, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes; he took her arm and pulled her around to the other side of the car where they were out of ear shot from the twins. Sylvia looked at him reproachfully, crossing her arms over her chest as they both leaned against the car.

"You're doing more for them," Oswald told her, "than they are doing for you."

"They're eager enough."

"You don't trust them." He reminded. "I hate to have this argument again, but with everything that has happened with Demetri, do you really want to put us through that again?"

Sylvia stared at him, her attention was pulled completely from Jack and Joel and she glared at Oswald, stepping away from him.

"'Do I want to put us through that again'?" She repeated indignantly. "I didn't _want_ any of that to happen to us. At all. And—you know, by the way—They are not Demetri."

"Are they not?"

" _No_ , they're not."

"Would you bet your life on that as well?" Oswald questioned firmly.

Sylvia frowned: "I was blinded. I admitted that already. But there's more to these two than being willfully dense. Look how eager they—"

"Not every person who presents themselves to you wants your help or your charity, Sylvia."

"I don't think they want anything from me."

"Well, you thought the same thing about Demetri—"

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?" Sylvia snapped angrily.

It was Oswald's turn to be disarmed: "Excuse me?"

" _Excuse_ **you**? You keep throwing Demetri's betrayal into my face. Why? Because I want to help these twins reach their potential? Look at them, Oz! Look what they already know—Look what they're capable of _without_ training, _without_ mentoring."

"I've seen what they can do," Oswald reminded sternly. "I'm not calling their skill or what-have-you into question."

"But you are when it concerns my judgement?"

Oswald looked at her as though he might lose his patience, but when he didn't offer any rebuttal to her assumption, Sylvia sighed deeply. She looked down at the ground, biting the inside of her cheek, then returned his stern gaze with a reproving one.

"That's it, isn't it?" Sylvia said sharply. "You don't trust my judgment anymore because of what happened with Demetri. What _I_ inadvertently allowed to happen. Saying you don't trust my judgment—You're basically telling me that you don't trust _me_."

"Sylvia…"

"Tell me I'm wrong." Sylvia demanded.

Oswald said carefully, "No. You're not wrong."

There was an uncomfortable pause between them during which Oswald put his hand on the car as he tried to find a way to assuage the painful truth. Sylvia, on the other hand, leaned her backside against the passenger side, arms crossed, burning a hole through the pavement as she allowed his words to sink in.

"Victor's taking an awful long time." Sylvia said icily. "I'm going to go find him."

"Sylvia—" Oswald began, grabbing her arm.

"— _Take your hand off me_."

Oswald slowly did as she demanded; her dangerous glare, easily a deterrent. Once he did, Sylvia turned on her heel and stormed back inside the club, looking for Victor.

* * *

By the time Sylvia had returned with Victor, empty-handed, the twins had gotten their bullets in the gun in under thirty seconds. Their time varied on how often the other brother would try to distract them from beating his record.

Oswald was in the passenger seat, biding his time. In all honesty, he didn't regret telling Sylvia that he questioned her judgment when it came to inviting people into their inner circle; he regretted how they had discussed the concern. It could have been brought to the open in so many other ways, at least.

Jack and Joel gathered together in the backseat, showing off their bullet-loading skills as Sylvia hopped into the driver's seat. Wordlessly, Victor crawled into the back, opting to sit nearest to the window as he optimally enjoyed the scenic route. Since they were going into the woods at nightfall, the trip proved to be idealistically serene.

"Where are the others?" Oswald asked no one in particular.

"They're drunk." Sylvia answered airily.

She didn't even offer a side-glance to him.

" _Oof_ ," Victor mused. "What did _you_ guys talk about while I was gone?"

Oswald snapped at Victor to shut the hell up, and Victor simply grinned in amusement.

Sylvia started the car. Just as she did, Gotham opened up its gray, cloudy skies; and it started to rain (for lack of a better phrase) 'cats and dogs'. While Victor told the twins about some contracts that he and their Lady Boss had completed together, Oswald sat with his arms crossed, glaring at the glove compartment.

Sylvia was silent. It wasn't natural, to say the least.

Thirty minutes passed before someone other than Victor spoke.

"Where do I turn now?" Sylvia asked hoarsely.

"Right," the hitman answered. "Follow the path; at the fork in the road, you'll follow the one on the left."

"How much further?" asked Joel.

"Yeah," said Jack, "I don't even know how you can tell one path from the other."

"The trees kinda change colors."

"That's because it's autumn, you idiot."

"Don't call me names."

"Don't talk then, idiot." Jack snapped.

There was a silent moment before Victor added, "Someone here has a pretty cool pool in their backyard. Bout five minutes from where we are; wooden patio, a few chairs. Even has an umbrella—"

"Victor," Oswald said tiredly.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Please, be quiet."

"Eh…" Victor grumbled, rolling his eyes. But he respected the man's wishes and hushed.

A few more minutes of silence passed.

Sylvia glanced up in the rear-view mirror.

Her subtle glance earned an interested response from Victor, who slowly turned his head, gazing behind them.

For a while, she had driven with her hand on the gear stick, occasionally downshifting when they were met with a particular steep hill, or upshifting when the road seemed to wind on into the horizon.

The same hand had been originally relaxed; Oswald noticed how her fingers now tightened around the grip, her entire body became stiff.

"Do you see that?" Sylvia said stoically.

"Yeah," said Victor, a smile creasing his usually catatonic features. "I do."

"How long have they been behind us?"

"Well…" Victor said smartly. He glanced at his wristwatch, answering, "Bout ten minutes. Maybe longer."

"Are they following us?" asked Jack worriedly.

"Have they been behind us the entire time?" asked Joel, equally worried.

"Maybe they just now decided to turn on their headlights," mused Victor.

"I have my lights on," Sylvia told him coolly, "and I have low visibility. If I can't see shit, I know _they_ can't."

Oswald said softly, "They want us to know they have been following us."

Sylvia, Victor, Jack, and Joel glanced at him pointedly.

"That's a little dark, Boss." Joel whispered.

"That's a little morbid, man," Jack agreed.

Victor asked, "How fast are we going?"

"I'm doing sixty right now." Sylvia answered.

"Try going a little faster, Liv."

"If I go faster, they'll catch on."

"If you _don't_ speed up, they'll know you've caught on and you're pretending you haven't—that'll make us knowing what they know more noticeable," Victor cared to explain.

"Point taken." Sylvia muttered.

"Head to the fork in the road—turn right instead of left. Let's see if we can't lose them first."

"Victor, I'm not even sure _that's_ going to work."

"Have some faith, Liv."

"I'm an atheist." Sylvia answered flatly.

"You know, I'm not surprised." Victor chuckled.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Calm down, Pigeon."

" **Don't tell me to 'calm down'** ," Sylvia snarled at Oswald, glaring at him. "Actually, you know what, you are the _last_ person who should tell me to calm the fuck down!"

Oswald retorted back, " _What did_ I _do_?"

" _You know what you did_!"

"Boss, Lady Boss," Victor sighed patiently, "Let's try not to lose our cool, huh? Instead, let's try to lose _these_ idiots before we start turning on each other."

" _We're not turning on each other_!" Sylvia and Oswald snapped.

"Well, whatever it is you two are doing, how about waiting to do it when we're done losing these people?" Victor asked. "I don't _care_ to be the fly on the wall for your arguments—I bet they're actually pretty entertaining to watch—but I'm kind of in the splash zone, if you know what I mean."

" _Everyone knows what you fucking mean_ ," Sylvia growled. She glanced at the rearview mirror; suddenly, her tone changed to one of concern: "Where the fuck did the car go?"

Jack and Joel turned in their seats, glancing over the back window to see the lights had disappeared.

"Maybe they were just going in our direction," offered Jack.

"Maybe they just happened to go where we were going," said Joel.

"That's what I just said, man."

"Well, great minds think alike."

"Can't argue that!" Jack laughed, clapping his brother on the back.

"Would the two of you please shut the fuck up!" Sylvia shouted, causing the twins to jump. Addressing Victor, she said, "Where did the car _go_?"

"Like the guys said—maybe they're just going a different direction."

"For ten minutes straight?" Oswald countered.

"Look, I'm just here for the ride. Literally." Victor said, excusing himself with his hands up in surrender. "Relax. I cased the place out a couple days ago, drove to Reese's place _myself_. Alone. There was no one there, and no one followed me."

"Not unless she knew there was someone casing the place?" offered Jack.

Joel snapped, "The fuck, man?"

"What!"

"You can't cut a man down like that," snapped Joel. He leaned into his brother and said with a desperate whisper, "You know what this man has done for Christ's sake?"

"I know what he's done. He's—"

"You're gonna get us killed, man—"

"—I'm just saying! The bitch knows she owes money. If I owed money, I'd be hiding guards all over the place, making myself look as small as possible, and if needed…"

"I'd wait for them to come to my doorstep and then I'd unleash the army," Sylvia uttered more to herself than to anyone.

Oswald suddenly looked at her, slightly anxious.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing."

"I know that look. What is it?"

Sylvia said unhappily, "Joel is right."

"Huh?!" Victor and Jack said simultaneously.

"If I was in Reese's position, I wouldn't have guards out, trying to prove something," Sylvia said, her hand tightened on the gear shift. "I'd be making myself look small as possible, as weak as possible. And _if_ someone came to my doorstep, that's when I'd let my army out."

She slammed on her brakes; the car screeched to a stop. Everyone grabbed onto something as they were thrown forward towards the windshield, then suddenly held firm by their seatbelts.

"What the hell, Liv!"

"Don't you understand!" Sylvia said firmly.

The car moved onto the side of the road, and turned off.

She unbuckled her seatbelt, turning in her seat to look at them all: "Reese _knows_ we're coming for her. She has more men than we thought, more power than we thought, and now she knows we're coming because of that fucking car that was tailing us for god-only-knows how many fucking miles!"

"That car is _gone_ ," Victor insisted. "If it was following us, I'd have noticed."

"They didn't have their lights on until only a few minutes ago—and you noticed them when I noticed them."

"Actually, I noticed them ten minutes ago."

"That's not the _point_ —they could've been tailing us since we left Gotham! This downpour is covering everything in the fucking street. So, you can't tell me you would've been able to see them beforehand!"

Victor said to Oswald pointedly, "I'll be honest: I'm starting to feel just a _little_ offended."

"Victor, you're a great hitman, and you're more observant than anyone I have ever known but even _you_ have human eyes—I can't see shit in this goddamn downpour so I _know_ for a fact that neither can you!" Sylvia stated bluntly. "And even if that car wasn't following us for who knows how long, this road is the middle of fucking nowhere! Out of _all_ the roads it can take, it takes ours?"

"Coincidental?" Jack guessed.

"Incidental?" piped up Joel.

" _At least it's not accidental_ ," Jack and Joel agreed.

"We're heading into a fucking ambush," Sylvia told them. "You two" (She addressed the twins) "are amateurs. It's like sending fucking boy scouts to do the soldier's job. So, really, it's just Oswald, me, and Victor."

"Technically—" Victor began.

"— _ **Stop talking**_!" Sylvia bellowed.

"Sylvia," said Victor coolly. "Don't get me wrong, but I think you're just being extremely paranoid. You've not killed anyone in a while, so you're feeling a little rusty, and I can completely understand that. And no offense to you or Penguin—But I swear to god, if you tell me to shut up one more time…"

"Reese can't have more than a couple guards," Jack said pointedly. "She spent all her money on the cattle ranch, right?"

Sylvia and Victor exchange puzzled looks.

Joel smiled at his brother, nodding as he added, "Yeah, Dolores Reese spent her money on the farm that she owes Falcone. Can't have much money left to her name after that kind of purchase."

Sylvia rubbed her face, growing exceedingly aggravated.

"I know you two are trying to impress me and, you would have," Sylvia told them irritably. "However, _Dolores Reese_ didn't spend any money on the farm. She spent _Falcone's_ money. And after she got the farm from her husband, she sold it _all_ —skipped out on giving what she owed Falcone—and bought herself a fucking two-story house. She has enough money left over to buy herself an army and a Dalmatian Plantation if she felt like it."

"Nice try, Jack." Joel grumbled. "Made us look like _idiots_."

Jack shot him a dirty look.

"Let's just _go_ there," Victor insisted. "You'll see what the place looks like, and we'll go from there."

Sylvia glanced at Oswald expectantly.

Oswald gestured for her to keep going. Sylvia let out an exasperated sigh (" _I guess we'll see whose judgment checks out when we're dead_ ") before she put the car in reverse, turned it in the right direction, and drove back on the path towards Reese's abode.

"I think the rain is starting to lighten up," Joel said, looking through the window and up at the sky. "You know, that's something good about this city. When Gotham rains, it doesn't rain for long. The sun will sometimes rise."

"Is that a poem?" Victor asked.

"Yeah," chuckled Jack, glancing at his brother with a familial annoyance. "It's an original piece. Written and **dick** -tated."

"How would you autograph something like that?" the hitman wondered aloud. "You'd have to have a pretty good last name. Like—oh I don't know—Frost…or Zsasz."

"What about Kabuki?" Joel asked, looking at Victor for constructive criticism.

"Is that your last name?"

"Yeah," Jack simpered. "Dictated by Joel Kabuki, thrown in the trash by yours truly. Signed, forever yours, the Kabuki Twins."

"So, I'm guessing you don't care much for poetry," Victor said, pointing at Jack.

"If it gets me a girl, I might."

"Poetry wasn't created just for getting women. You know?" Victor said wisely.

The twins answered, " _How would you know_."

Victor simply smiled knowingly, and remained silent.

* * *

It was silent in the car. The rain had stopped pouring, at least. While the twins had made some form of noise in the back, whether that was appealing to Victor's sense of curiosity by telling him stories of how they used to prank their teachers with their identical appearances, Sylvia and Oswald remained quiet.

The remnants of an argument having not come full circle was starting to eat away at Oswald; he occasionally peered to his left, discreetly seeing whether or not Sylvia's expressions might have softened.

They hadn't.

Even while she drove, her eyes stared at the road. Hardened.

When Oswald looked away, staring at the road ahead, Sylvia would glance over at him. She didn't know what to expect from this trip; nor did she expect him to fold under her cold treatment. Did he deserve that kind of response, really? Probably not. After all, wasn't he just trying to look after them, especially after Demetri…?

But why did her one mistake of trusting Demetri cost her the value of Oswald's trust in her. It might've led to the death of their daughter, but how much longer would she have to pay the price of such an innocent mistake?

Well, that was a source of pain and guilt Sylvia couldn't bear to mull around. Especially not before they decided what to do with Reese.

After all, the woman's death wasn't exactly predicted. Whether or not she deserved to die was still up in the air; most decidedly, if Reese had organized an ambush, there wouldn't be any room for discussion about the fate of one woman when and if her army could readily rain down bullets.

Reese wouldn't be so kind to wait for them to come after her.

Sylvia would return the favor.

"Hey," Victor offered. "Why don't we get a couple tunes going on the radio, huh?"

He didn't wait for either boss to protest; he simply unbuckled his seatbelt, and leaned forward between them and started tinkering with the knob of the radio, waiting for the static to shift to something palatable to the ear drums.

It stopped on a song.

A song that was all too familiar.

It was Elvis Presley's, 'Can't Help Falling In Love With You'.

 _Wise men say_

 _Only fools rush in_

 _But I can't help falling in love with you._

Sylvia glanced at the radio, biting her lower lip. She was so angry…

"Who wants to sing along!" Victor said, clapping the twins on the back encouragingly.

"I'm not much of a singer," said Joel.

Jack chuckled, "I wish you had the same feeling about that when you're in the damn shower."

 _Shall I stay, would it be a sin_

 _If I can't help falling in love with you_

Oswald sighed quietly, glancing down from the glass windshield. His attention was on the radio itself.

He remembered when Sylvia had _no_ self-confidence in her singing on stage. There was a moment when he was just taking over Fish's bar when the clientele had become furious—the lack of the proper duet couple on stage and the fact that Maroni (at the time when the Don was still alive) had refused to supply the club with alcohol had caused a certain amount of frustration among the guests.

Sylvia had gone on the stage to assuage the unruly crowd and did an impromptu duet with a total stranger, singing this exact song. And the entire time—she was focused on Oswald. Effectively, she'd saved the day.

Sylvia may have been responsible for allowing Demetri to get too close to her or his daughter. And while Sylvia had misjudged Demetri's intentions, leading to what was the most painful experience of both of their lives, she _had_ avenged their child's death within minutes. Demetri had met his cruel fate at the hands of a woman he'd tried to double cross.

 _Like a river flows_

 _Gently to the sea_

 _Darling, so it goes_

 _Some things are meant to be._

Oswald smiled to himself.

Jack and Joel _did_ seem to know what they were doing. If trained by Sylvia herself, they could prove to be excellent allies. To his knowledge, they hadn't been loyal to anyone else—not like Demetri had known Delilah prior to his unfortunate turning.

There would always be time to have Victor interrogate the twins, just to make sure they weren't planting seeds of treachery later on down the road. Oswald would be certain of that before Sylvia became further attached.

 _Take my hand_

 _Take my whole life too_

 _For I can't help_

 _Falling in love with you_

Sylvia's hand that rested on the gear shift was holding the grip so tightly, now appeared relaxed, loose. In fact, everything about her cold, stiff gaze had softened.

 _Like a river flows_

 _Surely to the sea_

 _Darling so it goes_

 _Some things are meant to be._

Victor had started humming along, swaying left and right, eyes closed as he enjoyed the sweet sound that was Presley's voice. He uttered to no one in particular, "Handsome _and_ had a voice of an angel; I'd have let _this_ man kill me in a heartbeat."

Oswald placed his left hand over Sylvia's right. She looked at him curiously, then smiled when his fingers slightly stroked her knuckles.

As the car purred on a steady speed of sixty miles per hour, Sylvia turned her wrist, her palm facing up. Oswald held her hand, interlacing their fingers, and brought it up to his lips, kissing the back of it.

She and Oswald sang quietly:

" _Take my hand_

 _Take my whole life too_

 _For I can't help_

 _Falling in love with you_

 _For I can't help falling in love with you._ "

As the song ended, Victor whistled low and chuckled, "That song gets me every time, guys. I _love_ the King of Rock."

"Watch it go to static," muttered Jack.

And sure enough, right after the song, the channel was bombarded with static.

"Man, you ruined it!" Joel snapped.

"It's not my fault, it's the business!"

Oswald and Sylvia smiled at each other. Sylvia's smile faltered as she pulled up to a rocky path; it was unpaved, and full of gravel.

"Is this it?" She asked.

"Don't ask the question, Liv. You already know the answer."

"Goddamn it." Sylvia grumbled. She parked the car, then turned in her seat once more. "Victor, I know you're into this shit, so I'm going to be addressing your little friends back here, 'kay?"

"Address away!"

She looked at the twins: "I don't know what we're getting into here, guys."

"Got a gun?" asked Joel.

"A _Glock_!" Jack corrected quickly.

"I put three extra guns in the trunk," Victor interjected, pulling Sylvia's attention to him. "They're no _automatic pistol_ luxury brand you got in your hands but it's something."

"You're amazing," Sylvia said, cracking a smile. "Get those, would you?"

"I'm guessing a 'please' is implied?"

"It's a given, yeah."

"Figured it was," Victor said coolly. He gestured with the nod of his head for the twins to follow him; the three of them exited the car.

Oswald looked at her.

"Reese is expecting us." Sylvia said darkly, watching the trunk pop open.

"Sylvia."

"Don't you mean 'Lark'?" She said half-joking.

"No."

She blinked, turning her attention back to him as Oswald's tone softened.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier." He said sincerely.

"Don't be."

"But I am."

"Well, it is what it is." Sylvia told him, smiling sadly. "Whether or I like it or not, I was responsible—"

"No, you aren't. You never were responsible for what happened to her."

"We've discussed this before, _at length_ —"

"—And I was wrong."

Sylvia blinked and said with a wry chuckle, "You're trying to make me feel better. And I can understand why. But there's no taking back what you said. You were right: I was wrong for taking in Demetri. I let Csilla die—"

Oswald sighed sharply in frustration, and Sylvia looked at him reproachfully.

"You are _not_ responsible for what happened to her that night, Sylvia. Like it or not—and I assuredly do not—Demetri fooled us both. And you made him pay for it! _Don't you see that_!" Oswald told her irritably.

"Why are you snapping at me?"

" _I don't know_!"

Sylvia rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, slowly touching her forehead as though to suppress an inevitable headache. Oswald did the same.

"I didn't pull the trigger, but Demetri was my responsibility. And you're right. I misjudged him."

"—Sylvia—"

"—And you're right, I have terrible judgment—"

"—Would you just—"

"—How you can trust me at all—"

"For _fuck's_ sake, Sylvia, enough!"

Sylvia stared at him, her lips opened partly out of being offended by his interruption, but also surprised by it.

"I trust you!" Oswald said strongly. "I trust your judgment, your instincts. I trust you with my staff—for god's sake, while I was in Arkham, you ran the empire! I trust you with everything, my _life included_!"

"But Demetri—"

"Is _not_ your responsibility," Oswald finished emphatically (albeit exasperatedly). He gesticulated irritably as he spoke: "You're not responsible for _anything_ that happened that night—not Demetri's betrayal or Csilla's death. Now, Demetri's death is definitely on you, but if you hadn't done anything, I most certainly would have! You want to help everyone but you make their problems your own, and _that_ might be the most irritating thing about you—the thing that infuriates me to the point it drives me completely **mad** —"

Sylvia stared at him, impressed. She hadn't seen him angry, per se, in quite some time.

"Funnily enough," Oswald laughed sarcastically, "No matter how many staff members leave or die or _what have you,_ the number always comes back up."

"Well, people come to you for help because you actually do something about it," Sylvia rationalized. "You took out Strange's monsters, you keep the people safe—GCPD isn't going to do that."

Frustrated, Oswald gestured to the back of the car, saying, "You're so perceptive of everyone else except yourself! People come to our side because of my leadership, but they stay because of _you_."

Oswald could really get himself into a frenzy: breathless, a little disheveled, and his hair slightly moved even despite all the gel and hairspray in those raven locks of his.

"They stay because of me, huh?" Sylvia said quietly, more to herself, allowing that to sink in.

"Well, they certainly don't stay because of _me_." Oswald reminded, although he sounded more or less jealous about that.

She sat on a knee in the driver's seat, glancing over the back to see that the trunk was closed and Victor was showing the twins how to load the weapon—preferably in thirty seconds or less. Sylvia grinned when he was teaching them in the same way that he'd taught her. The contest did wonders for two people or more.

She turned to Oswald, looking at him with a small smile.

"You don't blame me for what happened to her?" She whispered.

"I don't." He said, looking at her with a calmer disposition. "I suppose I never have. I was—am—still angry."

"Still grieving."

"More or less, Pigeon."

Sylvia sucked in her bottom lip, rolling her tongue over it before she said quietly, "Dolores Reese isn't going get taken down easily."

"I'd say you're right."

"Oswald, do you want this woman dead?"

"At this point, dear, I just want this day to end."

Sylvia rolled her eyes and said agreeably, "Oh my god, I _know_. Me too. But if you wanted her to stay alive, I'd find a way."

"No, Pidge. Let's just be done with this and kill her."

"Ooh," She snickered. "So _cruel_. So _violent_." She quickly kissed his cheek, adding, "I'm kinda living for it, actually."

The back doors opened as Jack, Joel, and Victor crawled inside, all three of them carrying weapons: locked and loaded.

"So," said Victor happily. "Have the Lord and Lady come to an agreement?"

"On?" Sylvia and Oswald voiced in unison.

"The fate of our _dear_ old Reese."

"Dead or alive," said Sylvia, smirking. "But preferably dead."

"Sounds like a plan." Joel said gleefully.

"A plan _and a half_." Jack enthused. "How old is this broad again?"

"Bout fifty—give or take a few years," Victor answered nonchalantly.

Sylvia started the car and just drove another block; she pulled the car into the woods as deeply as possible, obscuring it from view. No one asked why.

* * *

All of the parties exited the vehicle; Sylvia didn't bother locking it. If someone wanted to get away in their car—by all means, let them.

"Why would you steal from Falcone anyway?" Joel hissed as the lot of them crept towards the house.

They were still at least a block away. While that was still a good amount of distance to cover, in the blankness and desertion of the woods, it wouldn't take long to get there. Victor was first in their bee line; then, it was Jack and Joel. Leading behind them was Sylvia, who kept a small distance between her and Oswald.

"I understand why Mr. Zsasz is here," said Jack quietly to his brother. "But why exactly did Mr. Penguin come along?"

"To protect Lark, you idiot," Joel muttered.

"Ain't _she_ supposed to protect him." Jack assumed confusedly. "Being his 'defender' or 'enforcer' and all that jazz."

Victor chuckled, glancing over his shoulder at the twins, saying, "Penguin moves slow, but don't underestimate him, boys."

"What? Why?" whispered Joel urgently. "Look, he's limping everywhere. He doesn't exactly have the speed, you know. I mean, we could really outrun him if he wanted to."

"Then you'd have Liv to deal with." Victor reasoned. "And you won't outrun _her_. Trust me. I've tried."

" _I'll take your word for it_ ," Jack and Joel said in voices quieter than whispers.

Sylvia and Oswald were making their way, at their own speed. While Oswald was hoofing through the branches, frustratingly pushing them away from him and every now and then letting out an irate sigh of discontent, Sylvia more or less strolled as though she was in a park instead of in the middle of the wet woods.

"You know," Sylvia offered. "If you don't find it too emasculating, I'd tell you just to hop on my back."

"I'm not hopping on your back, Lark."

"We'd probably walk a little faster if you did."

"I am _not_ riding on your back."

"Or I could just hop on yours."

"No."

"Well, it was a suggestion," Sylvia said casually, grinning at him over her shoulder. "It wouldn't be the first time…You know…Me riding _you_."

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh when a large leaf which had been holding water suddenly lost its bearing and emptied out over his head. He pressed his lips tightly together, growling as he waved his arms to expel what little water would drop off of him.

Hearing him, Sylvia turned on her heels, smirking.

"How's it hanging?" She asked knowingly.

"This isn't the woods." Oswald grumbled through gritted teeth, striding past her. "It's the _jungle_."

"The jungle is more humid."

"I doubt it would be more humid than _this_."

"The jungle is rainier than this too."

"Alright!" Oswald said, annoyed. He pointed at her, saying, "It's just as tedious walking through a jungle. You can accept that, can't you?"

"If I see a flying toucan, I might." Sylvia said slyly and she walked past him with a flip of her hair.

It was quick, and just as abrupt; about twenty feet from Reese's house, a rain of bullets suddenly shot from the direction ahead, spitting and hitting the bark of the trees, and catching on branches of the small thickets.

Sylvia grabbed Oswald by the shoulder, shoving him down to the earth, kneeling down behind a thicker tree; Oswald grunted, his face nearly colliding with a log, momentarily taken aback by her heavy-handed reaction.

Sylvia clicked a button on her Glock, aimed at the direction of the gunfire and returned it—an automatic pistol with the power and speed of a small, tiny machine gun.

Slightly in front of them was Victor, who had knelt down behind a stump; Jack and Joel were beside themselves, hunkered behind a bush, fumbling with their guns and talking each other out of their mystified fear before they clapped each other on the back, and starting pelting out rounds.

When the enemy had stopped firing, Victor called out: "Hold it!"

"Not exactly a preparatory command, but I'll take it," Oswald muttered.

"Well," Sylvia mused sarcastically. "I told you they knew we were here."

"I got it, I got it," Victor muttered, glaring back at her. "So, they know. We're going to have to split up so we can take out these nitwits."

"We're twenty feet away. _Twenty feet_." Sylvia emphasized. "They must have scopes or— _Stay down, Oswald_ —or they have binoculars…"

"Typical hunting gear for amateurs, nothing I've not seen before, Liv." Victor returned lazily. "If they want to impress me, they need to have some military gear or—"

"Don't jinx us!" Joel snapped.

"Yeah, don't jinx us!" Jack said, glaring at Victor.

"If they have scopes, we're not getting any further than this." Sylvia told him. "Suck in your damn ego for god's sake."

"My ego," Victor returned confidently, "is well-earned. You should know that by now."

"I know your ego needs to be constantly stroked otherwise you think someone is disrespecting you," Sylvia said coldly.

Victor crawled over to where she and Oswald were hiding. On his stomach, Victor finally had arrived at her spot, and he looked up at her. He grabbed her by the jaw and forced her to look in the direction of Reese's house; although the house wasn't his focal point. Instead, Sylvia saw a tree. A large one.

" _A treehouse_?" Sylvia said incredulously.

"A treehouse." Victor repeated through gritted teeth. He lowered his hand, saying, "What was it that I first taught you when you were taking lessons from me?"

"Kill Bob because Fish escaped," Sylvia answered sardonically.

"Wrong."

"Well, that's all I learned during the first adventure, at least."

"The lesson was: 'Don't let your emotions get the best of you'."

Oswald glanced between them curiously, perhaps more taken in by their conversation than he was supposed to be.

"If you remember correctly," she said heatedly, "I didn't let my emotions get the best of me."

"You thought Penguin was in trouble and you damn near killed my girls and me on the way there."

"How dare you!" Sylvia hissed. "You were _fine_. And—excuse me—I had good reason to think he was in trouble. Fish and Butch were coming for his ass."

"Still, you were worried—"

"Wrong! I was _pissed_."

"—What's the difference—"

"I work best when I'm under pressure!"

"You'll forgive me if I don't trust your _wifely_ instincts."

Oswald sighed, rolling his eyes, getting to his feet.

Sylvia frowned, saying, "If you don't trust my 'wifely instincts', trust my fucking anger."

"You don't seem angry—"

There was a sound of a bullet striking the air. Oswald grunted, and hit the deck just soon after. Sylvia looked at him, suddenly concerned. She pulled him to her, letting out a breath of relief when he muttered, "I tripped."

"I told you to stay down, sweetheart."

"Well," Victor sighed. "I trust your anger. But the only time you seem to get angry is when someone is threatening Penguin's life."

"So, judging by that fact, _don't_ you agree that I'm thinking _pretty_ fucking clearly right now?" Sylvia questioned roughly.

Victor took a second to consider that logic and he said, "Okay. I trust you."

" _And_ my 'wifely instincts'?"

"Sure, why not. They're basically the same, right?"

"Right, so shut the fuck up and let's get to that tree house."

"Fine by me."

Sylvia stopped for a second and looked at everyone saying, "So, does anyone have any ideas as to how we actually accomplish that—without getting shot?"


	23. The Well

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Well

A/N: Trigger Warning: This chapter has some horror elements in it: lots of dead animals, couple of dead people, elements of **claustrophobia**.

* * *

"Drawing lines in mud with a stick," Sylvia mused as Victor finished mapping out the points that illustrated the locations of the two-story house, tree house and the varied points-of-reference in the dirt. "I feel like I'm in high school again."

"I don't remember recess being so brutal," Jack muttered.

Joel glanced up at the house that was about twenty feet away, adding, "Stakes weren't as high, back then."

"Two people go through the front door," Victor stated, tapping the end of the stick where the front entrance of the house had been marked with a sharp pebble. "Three will go behind and take the treehouse."

"Why don't we go all at once?" Jack offered. "Unstoppable force, and all that."

"With an immovable enemy," reminded his brother unhappily. He gestured to the house, adding, "They already know we're coming. If we go up to the house in a pretty chorus line, they can take us out before we even set foot on the property."

Victor grinned, saying, "Theatrically speaking, it's impressive."

"So, let's don't go up to the house all at once. Why don't we all just go to the treehouse?" Jack asked.

"They have scopes, idiot," Joel grumbled. "They already know we're coming—they'll be expecting us to go to the damn tree house. That's where their snipers are at."

Oswald made a quiet groan from behind Sylvia; she glanced at him worriedly, and he sent her a reassuring smile. Staying knelt down for a time wasn't granting him a single kindness.

"So, that's the plan, it seems." Victor stated finally. "Three people go to the treehouse—the other go through the front door."

" _So, who goes_ _where_?" The brothers inquired to no one in particular.

Victor, Jack, and Joel tilted their heads up to peer up at Sylvia, who, in turn, looked at Oswald indicatively. Oswald stood to his feet; the others straightened.

"Victor, you take out the snipers." He directed.

"We'll go with you—" Jack offered as he and his brother stood to walk towards Oswald.

"No, you will not. The both of you will go with him," He said, gesturing to the hitman. "I don't know how many snipers Reese has, but there will be plenty to keep us as far away from her as possible. Lark" (Sylvia looked at him expectantly) "You'll come with me."

"Taking the front door entrance?" asked Joel, worried. "Won't they shoot you the moment you get in?"

"The guards on the outside might," Sylvia explained (earning a small appreciative smile from Oswald) "On the inside, she'll probably have more hands-on fighters. It's a small house, pretty close quarters. Victor, what do you think our success rate is at this moment?"

"I say we have about 2:5 odds getting through this unscathed." He said nonchalantly as he reloaded his weapons. He popped the chamber, looking at the shiny bullet before adding, "Pretty good odds if you ask me."

"What about death?" asked Joel.

Jack nodded: "Yeah, what's your calculation for all of us dying?"

"What do I look like: A mathematician?" Victor questioned sardonically. "Anyway, there's no chance of _all_ of us dying. Worst-case scenario: the three of us" (he gestured to Oswald, Sylvia and himself) "come out with a few bullet wounds—you two will be dead on the ground before your mother knows what happened."

"Victor!" Sylvia scolded.

"What? They were dying to know the odds of 'all of us' dying. So, there it is. And, by the way, that's _worst-case_ scenario."

"Well, can we go?" Jack asked nervously. "It's doing nothing for my nerves just standing here."

"Yeah, I'm getting a little antsy."

"Is it bad that I kinda wished Dagger and Chilly just sucked it up and went with us?"

"I'm kinda feeling sick over here too."

Oswald rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Well, it's a little too late to change your minds now. So, _march_."

Victor didn't have to be told twice. He cracked his mischievous grin, tapped the brothers on the shoulders hearteningly, and he quickly turned on his heel and started creeping towards the treehouse—although not in the straight direction as the twins had tried doing before the bullets spat at them to follow their leader in the duck-and-sprint fashion as he preferred.

Sylvia watched after them, head cocked to the side curiously until they were—for the most part—out of sight. She looked at Oswald, who was watching her carefully; a weird little smile on his face.

"How's your leg?" she asked softly.

"It's fine." He answered. "Hurts from time to time but it's nothing I can't handle."

"I have no doubt about that. Shall we go, Penguin?"

"After you, Lark."

Sylvia flashed him a coy smile before she strode ahead of him.

Oswald had to admire her dedication to athleticism, and the way her entire outfit just amplified her physique. She moved branches, broke a few so that way none of them would get in his way; her skin gave off a sheen from sweat and the dampness of the air. A few leaves were caught in her hair and the dirt and grime of the woods clumped against her boots.

There was a familiar twisting in his stomach, a part of him that had been repressed ever since…that night. When Sylvia was being playful or intentionally seductive, there was always that same tightness, twisting and coiling in his stomach as his body yearned for her.

Sylvia Cobblepot, the Wife, and the First Lady of Gotham could tease him.

Lark, Penguin's Enforcer, could set Oswald's passions aflame.

" _Well, fuck me._ "

Oswald startled, glancing up from the exposed skin on the small of her back: " _What_?"

Sylvia straightened to her full height, gesturing to the house: "Ten guards in the front…Looks like five or six on the side. The house just went dark, so either the breaker blew or Reese turned off the switch to make it more difficult."

"…Oh…" Oswald muttered.

Curiously, she turned her head, smiling at him.

"Your face is red." She noted.

"Is it?"

Sylvia grinned knowingly and said coyly, "Got something on your mind, Penguin?"

"Only the task at hand."

"I'm sure that's not the only thing, but fine. Whatever you say, Boss."

Oswald exhaled quietly, albeit shakily. He had to pull himself together. _Professionalism_ , after all. Wasn't that the same lesson he'd been trying to teach her? Professionalism, self-control…. _all that crap,_ he thought.

"I can disarm some of them, but not all." She stated, her eyes flitted across the number of armed guards, weighing their stature and physique against her own.

"How fast can you move?"

"Pretty fast." She assured him confidently. "But I can move a lot faster, unencumbered. The weight of the weapon will only hinder my progress."

"Then, give me your gun."

Wordlessly, Sylvia released her Glock from the holster around her leg, and she handed it over to him.

"Do you know what I'm thinking?" Oswald asked as he checked to make sure it was loaded, glancing up at her afterwards.

"I'll go in, disarm as many as I can, and you cover me?" She guessed.

"I love how I do not have to explain every single thing to you."

"Well, when we're finished with Reese, maybe I can try guessing why you were blushing earlier?"

Oswald smiled guiltily, then thanked her as she took out an extra magazine, handing that over to him as well.

"You'll have to move quick." He cautioned.

"Then I best get a move on." Sylvia offered. "It's a shame though."

"What is?"

"How fast this is going to be over. You know me: Mama Pigeon likes to take her time."

She rubbed her hands together, cracked her knuckles, then her neck and she started heading towards the house.

Before she did, Oswald grabbed her shoulder, turning her around. Before she could question his interruption, his lips pressed against hers hard, and then tenderly. The hand that held the gun caressed the small of her back; she could feel the cold metal against her flesh. The other held her face, her jaw cradled in his palm as he deepened the kiss.

When the kiss naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him breathlessly.

"Ooh," She whispered. "You still remember that day, don't you? When Mama Pigeon took control of her Daddy Penguin."

"How could I forget? It was our wedding day."

"Morning of." Sylvia added, smirking. "Before we even said 'I do'."

"So sentimental."

"You're more sentimental than _me_."

He kissed her again; she returned it.

"Be quick, Lark."

"Don't worry." Sylvia told him. "Just cover me."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

That said, she started forward. As she did, Oswald knelt down, and readied the pistol.

* * *

Sylvia rushed towards the first guard she saw. After disarming him, the man was gunned down—the bullets whizzing past her ear and hitting him. For every person she came into contact with, a bullet hit them. Soon, she'd gathered attention from the other guards surrounding Reese's household.

Sylvia grabbed an arm, forced it over her knee. As she disarmed the guard, three more came up to give their due diligence for their injured brother. As they approached her, they were taken down after three seconds of gunfire.

And that was how the first ten of Reese's guards were killed.

Behind the house, the firefight continued, right next to the treehouse.

Breathless, Sylvia straightened to her full height, rubbing her jaw where an unnamed bruiser had struck her with his elbow. She looked around, and seeing no one else (outside, at least), she grinned and held up her hand, giving a thumb's-up.

Approaching from the woods was Oswald, who grinned at her. _Victory, so far._

Simply walking up the steps, Sylvia kicked down the front door. It fell down like a tree having been cut down by a lumber jack. She gave it a once-over. Oswald advanced behind her, the gun reloaded and held out in front of him; his finger on the trigger.

The moment Sylvia took one step inside, five people came forward out of the pitch black. She round kicked someone.

A fist reached out to punch her—then his body fell down, dead.

It was just a huge chaotic pitch-black fight club. Fists throwing, feet kicking, grunts heard from the oncoming slew of guardsmen.

Sparks flew as bullets killed the television set; bodies of dead guardsmen fell to the wayside, a few bookcases tumbled over.

The backdoor was broken through; Victor, Jack, and Joel were heard, the twins letting out hoots and hollers as they mowed down anyone that didn't look like their allies.

In the heat of the moment, it appeared as though it had been a fight easily won. That was until the kitchen door flew open and there stood a woman who appeared to be (as Victor described) fifty years old—holding a machine gun steadily in between her hands.

Dolores Reese. Pale skin, tightened with firming, age-defying lotion, grayed hair pulled into a tighter, severe bun, and wearing slick blue jeans, a red shirt, and overalls. It was as though she'd popped out of a generic stereotypical redneck farm magazine, and decided to make a home in this reality.

Reese had the beadiest eyes behind old grandma glasses. They darted between Victor, Jack, and Joel who held their own guns at shoulder-height; then they moved to Oswald at whom she glared even as he held Sylvia's pistol at equal height.

"So, you finally came for me." Reese said dangerously.

"You know why we are here," Oswald told her civilly. "We are not here to kill you. We are simply here to collect a debt. One that you owe me."

"A debt?" Reese returned, taking a step towards him.

At that moment, Sylvia knelt down, took a shotgun from the corpse of a guard that lied at her feet, and held it up. She cocked it, and stood in front of Oswald, who minded her protective nature momentarily before reverting his gaze back to Reese.

"You're here to kill me." Reese said quietly. "Why else would you have brought _him_?" (She cast a shadowy glance to Victor.) "Or _her_." (She eyeballed Sylvia carefully). "You don't plan on bringing me in for questioning—"

"There's no question about what you've done." Sylvia told her sternly, lowering her weapon. "You asked Don Falcone for money to purchase land that belonged to your husband, and asked for _more_ money when your husband died so you could supposedly pay off the gangsters that wanted him dead for a debt that _he_ owed _them_. You basically stole from him and then went into hiding, like a coward."

"You'd have done the same thing." Reese said, shaking her head. "Besides…It doesn't matter now, does it? Falcone is gone."

"Falcone retired, but that doesn't erase the debt you still owe _him_ ," Sylvia said, gesturing the shotgun in Oswald's direction. "The money you bought the land with—It never belonged to you." She raised the gun back at Reese for good measure.

Silence filled the air. And for a minute, the woman debated internally whether or not this had been a victory or a mere inevitable loss.

"There's no chance of me living through this, is there?" Reese said, slowly lowering her weapon. "I'm a dead woman. That's it?"

"Perhaps we can come to an agreement. If you surrender what you have," Oswald said finally (Reese glanced at him), "You may leave. Right now. You will leave empty-handed, but you will be alive."

Reese glanced at Victor, who seemed indifferent to the deal, while Jack and Joel seemed happy to let bygones be bygones. Afterall, no one (important) had died so this seemed like a good day's aftermath. While the hammer had been lowered on their guns and their fingers lifted off the trigger, Sylvia's stance had not changed.

"You won't pursue me after?" Reese questioned, her voice shaking. "If I put my weapons down, you won't harm me? I want your word, Penguin. Your word!"

"You have my word."

"F-fine…"

Reese began to lower her weapons.

It looked like everything was going to end happily.

The moment the tip of her machine gun lifted and pointed dangerously at Oswald, Sylvia cocked the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.

Reese let out a scream and then fell on her back.

Victor, the Kabuki Twins, and Oswald lowered their weapons, looking at Sylvia as she walked over to Reese who was barely breathing; her soft inhaling gasps and the shaky, sharp exhales that followed as her debilitated body struggled to stay alive.

"Stupid bitch." Sylvia sighed.

"I…I…I…" Reese whispered. "I…I—There's…A…"

" **There's a what**?"

"A…A…" Reese gasped. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, and she struggled to point upwards. "There's…a…." And she started laughing.

Sylvia looked up.

A bundled stick of dynamite was duct-taped to the ceiling fan above them; a timer set for it to go off in one minute….

"BOMB!" Jack and Joel shouted, pointing hysterically at the ceiling fan. "THERE'S A BOMB IN THE HOUSE! THERE'S A BOMB IN THE HOUSE!"

Jack and Joel sprinted out, hopping over the dead bodies of the guards. Reese was laughing, although it came out in wheezes. Victor hightailed it out. Sylvia grabbed Oswald, literally picking him up _off_ the ground and throwing him over her shoulder as she sprinted out of the building after Victor.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT BITCH'S PROBLEM!" Jack screamed as he ran, pumping his fists heavily as he caught up with his brother. "SHE'S COMPLETELY OUT OF HER MIND!"

"Just _keep_ running!" Sylvia snapped. "I don't know how big it—"

 _ **KA-BOOM**_!

It lit up the entire forest, setting fire to some of the dead trees around it, and catapulting the five of them into the woods. Victor rolled; the twins somersaulted; Oswald was thrust forward into the dirt and mulch, and Sylvia's body went flying forward.

The house itself was eaten up in flames.

* * *

Groaning, the twins quickly brushed themselves off and they started shouting at one another, although the roar of the fire and the ringing in their ears left each of them confused and alarmed.

Victor rubbed his neck, slowly getting to his feet. He took one look at the house and muttered, "Damn…I don't even have any s'mores."

"What the _hell_ was that!" Oswald said angrily, using a tree trunk to stabilize his balance. He muttered curses, flinging twigs, leaves, and gathered mulch and dirt off him. The edge of a leaf's stem was in his hair and he angrily pulled it out with unnecessary revulsion, ripping it into uncountable pieces before he started looking around him.

"Sylvia?" He called.

 _Damn it,_ where was she?

" _Sylvia_!"

"Help me!"

Oswald and Victor heard the call and they followed her voice.

"Help!"

"Liv?!"

"I'm in a hole! _Get me out_!"

Jack and Joel followed Victor, staring around them.

"Where is she?" asked Jack.

Joel shrugged, saying, "I don't kn—"

"Shut up!" Oswald said, waving at them.

They waited for her to sound off again.

" _Help!_ "

Oswald and Victor said simultaneously, "That way."

And they headed towards what appeared to be an actual well or what was left of it. Built of stone or marble. The well itself had long ago been taken down so that the only thing that was reminiscent of such a man-made object was the actual hole. Oswald peered inside—dark as ever.

"I can see you!" Sylvia's voice called back.

"We can't see _you_." Jack said, looking down through the hole. "It's really dark."

" _ **No fucking shit**_!"

Victor chortled, "Well, it's good to know she's still herself. I'd hate for her to get amnesia."

"Get me out of this fucking thing!" Sylvia called out.

"We will, just hold on." Oswald reassured. He stood up, glancing at Victor.

Victor suggested, "A ladder?"

Oswald sent him a look: "A ladder, _really_? Why didn't I think of that— _Do you see a ladder anywhere, Victor_?"

"It's okay, boss," said the hitman smoothly. "We'll find something. Trust me. It's not the first time I had to get someone out of a well. Kabuki number 1 and Kabuki number 2—come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Just follow me," the hitman said encouragingly. "Unless you want to remain here."

The twins gave Oswald's irritable disposition a double-take before they quickly ambled after Victor, who reassured that he knew where a ladder was. They would go to this shack that he'd seen prior to the arrival at Reese's abode.

"How far away is that?" Oswald asked.

"Bout a mile. Twenty-minute walk, if less. We can go see if the car works, but it's been known to stall from time to time." Victor answered. "I don't know if you want to tell her that or not, but it'll be about an hour."

After receiving yet another glare from his boss, the hitman smiled apologetically before taking the twins with him.

" _Is anyone still up there_!"

"I'm here, Pigeon."

"What's happening?" Sylvia's voice came out of the darkness, sounding worried. Her voice echoed, bouncing off the walls.

"Victor went to find a ladder."

"Does he even know how deep this fucking thing is?"

"I doubt it." Oswald answered. He sat crisscrossed, not too close to the edge in any case he happened to fall down too, but it was close enough where Sylvia would be able to see his face.

"Ozzie?"

"Yes?"

"It's really wet down here."

"I'd say it would be," Oswald agreed. He looked down: "Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so. I think I might've twisted my wrist, but you know…all thing's considered…Not too bad… I'm think this thing is maybe…12 feet deep. Water goes up to my ankles—Not drowning at least, so that's a good sign! Right?"

"I'd take it as a good sign, yes," Oswald returned, reassuring her. He smiled to himself, hearing the nervous chuckle of hers that followed as though she was just humoring the two of them.

Two minutes of silence passed between them.

"Oswald?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think Reese had any intentions of going out alive."

"I say there was a good chance of that happening." Oswald told her.

"AAAHHHHHH!"

Oswald jumped: " _Sylvia_!"

"Something weird just touched my leg!""

Oswald let out a sigh of relief, saying, "It's probably a snake."

"Pr-probably…I don't like snakes…"

He chuckled.

"What the hell are you laughing about!" Sylvia snapped.

"I was just thinking. Taking a bullet doesn't frighten you but a reptile makes you lose control." Oswald told her. "It's a little comical if you think about it."

"Well, it won't be funny if it bites me."

"So, try killing it before it does."

"Easier said than done; it's really dark down here…But you have a point. I'll try looking for it. Don't be surprised if I scream 'it bit me' really loud."

Oswald grinned, hearing the familiar dark snicker of hers that followed. There was a little scuffle below, soft, angry grunts as she splashed around and when he heard her triumphant 'FOUND YOU!"

"Did you get it?" Oswald called down.

"I think so. I've never strangled a snake before…I might've put it to sleep…"

"That's probably for the best."

"Best for all of us, I suppose." Sylvia returned.

* * *

Silence followed. It was about ten minutes before someone spoke.

"Oswald…"

"Yes?"

"I think I am hurt."

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't know. I'm just not feeling the best right now," Sylvia said tiredly. "I think I might've cut myself on something on the way down here. Maybe it's the sewage water—It reeks: It's an old well, I think."

A pang of worry made Oswald feel a little nauseous.

 _Where was Victor with that damn ladder_.

He peered up at the sky to see that the clouds had cleared. Aside from the smoke that filled the open air, there were stars peeking out through it. The full moon, above.

"You're going to be okay," He reassured.

 _If Sylvia was cut, she'd be bleeding, but if the cut was bad enough, would she lose a lot of blood in such a little time_?

"Oswald?"

"Yes, Pigeon?"

"It smells bad down here." Sylvia told him; her voice came out of the well, almost frightened. "Smells like death."

"Probably a dog or a rabbit that fell down the well," Oswald offered. "It can happen."

"I know what dead animals smell like."

"And?"

"It smells like that, but like something _else_ too…Like dead people."

Oswald sighed, "You're afraid, Sylvia. Your mind is starting to play tricks on you."

Sylvia's nervous laugh that came from below made Oswald feel less certain about what he'd just told her.

She wasn't afraid of anything. Sylvia was one of the most fearless people he'd ever met. She wasn't afraid of taking a bullet for a stranger, most certainly not for someone she cared for. She'd looked death in the face numerous times, and never feared it. Aside from a small phobia about snakes…what else did she fear?

"Oswald?"

"I'm right here."

"I think I found something."

"A dead snake?"

"Well, I think it _is_ dead, but I feel something…I think it's a flashlight."

"Why would there be a flashlight down there?" Oswald asked curiously.

"Do you _really_ want to know the answer to that question, because I know _I_ don't." Sylvia said shakily. " _Feels_ like a flashlight, at least. Like metal or plastic…It has a switch, I'm going to see if— _oh my god_ …"

Oswald stood suddenly and he had to step back. Then he took a breath and he peered down the well, seeing Sylvia at the bottom.

The blast from the bomb in the house had flown her forward through brambles of tree branches and thickets, before she'd broken her fall through a well hole; as a result, her face had a few scrapes as did the rest of her.

The strength of the flashlight was strong, and it revealed to them both what had broken Sylvia's fall were a pile of dead animals that had fallen into the hole.

The stench that she had described was soon explained as to the reason why it existed:

There was a dead body of an elderly camper sitting slumped against the wall, flesh rotting and flies buzzing around its face. The nose was eaten off—the animals that had fallen through the well hole had tried to survive before meeting the same end as the camper.

Sylvia quickly shuffled to the other side, far as possible from the dead body; her back bared against the wall, the flashlight held tightly in her arms as though it would save her from its horrific appearance.

She looked up at Oswald.

For all the horrors that occupied the bottom of the well, what alarmed Oswald most was the look of terror that gazed back up at him.

"Get me out!" Sylvia panicked. "I want out now!"

No amount of consolation calmed her down.

"—Sylvia—"

" _Get me out,_ _ **please**_ _!_ "

"—Shh, it's going to be okay—"

" _How is it going to be okay—there's a fucking dead person in here with me_!"

She'd started hyperventilating, panic had permanently grabbed ahold of her. Sylvia stared at the animals that had tried to eat its only source of food. And she wondered, how long would it be before an animal—a wolf maybe—fell into this pit and tried to do the same thing to her?!

"Get me the hell out of here! I WANT OUT!"

"Sylvia, look at me!"

Sylvia kept the flashlight aimed at the camper, as though the light would keep its stench and impending doom away from her, warding it off. However, her eyes darted up to him.

 _Where the fuck was Victor for crying out loud_ , Oswald thought.

" _Please_ , get me out—I can't stay down here!"

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fretfully tried to move as far away as possible from the corpse, and for a second or two, she had even tried to climb the wall—despite the fact it had no ridges to hold onto or jagged edges on which to stand.

When she realized she would not be able to ascend alone, her screams quieted to those of cries.

"—Sylvia—"

"I want out, please get me out, don't leave me down here, I can't stay down here…" Sylvia whimpered. "It's like the animals ate him alive…" (She glanced down, the flashlight torched the bottom of the well, revealing an array of dead rats, the snake she'd killed for fear of being bitten—there was even a dead racoon, which she quickly side-stepped). " _ **I can't**_ —"

"—You have to focus on something else—"

" _How the fuck can I do that when I'm surrounded by dead things_!" She screamed, glaring up at him.

Oswald suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He could sympathize with her until kingdom come, but she could really make it difficult with her snippy remarks. Despite it all though, he'd take her angry responses over her frightened sobs any day: her anger, he could tame. Her fear scared _him_.

"Think of something else—anything else." Oswald suggested.

"Like _what_ for example!"

He opened his mouth to suggest something, but unfortunately, nothing came to mind except: "I don't know."

Sylvia let out a wry chuckle, but it quickly became a snivel as she leaned her back against the wall, looking down at her feet where the living had fallen and come to rot. For whatever reason, she had quieted down although Oswald could hear her occasional cries.

It had only been twenty minutes, since Sylvia was discovered inside the damn thing. Twenty minutes, he totaled up. It was long enough that the hitman and the Kabuki Twins were supposed to have (supposedly) found the ladder, and it'd be another twenty or thirty for the walk back.

A moment passed as Oswald searched for something for the two of them to discuss— _anything_ was better than the scary silence that seemed to slink its way into what was already an eerie situation. Who knew how long the battery in the flashlight would hold; Oswald knew Sylvia could withstand the darkness, but if the darkness was not within _her_ control?

He didn't want to think about that now. He simply had to keep her from panicking.

"Are you calmer now?" Oswald called down to her.

"I guess…" She answered; her voice broke: "Just…"

"'Just what?"

"Do something for me."

"Anything. What is it?"

"Make sure that no more animals fall in here with me, please?"

Oswald was taken aback. Her voice was so meek—the simple favor had come out as a plea.

"C-can you do that?" Sylvia asked.

"I can." Oswald promised.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

* * *

" _I'm sorry."_

Oswald glanced down at the hole to see that Sylvia's back against the wall. The flashlight hugged against her chest, still keeping as much distance from the dead camper as possible, but at least she wasn't trying to climb the walls in a half-attempt of ascension as she'd tried to do about ten minutes ago.

"Sorry for what?" Oswald asked, shaking his head. What on _Earth_ could she be apologizing for?

"For freaking out," Sylvia answered.

"Don't apologize for that. You have every reason to be scared."

"It's just…" Sylvia began, but she stopped talking. After a moment, she continued: "I'm not used to people seeing me scared. It's embarrassing…And it's just not _me_."

Oswald nodded, saying, "I can understand that."

"How much longer before Victor comes back?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take a few."

"Where is he going for the ladder?"

"To a shack," Oswald answered gently. He felt a little more comfortable, hearing her matter-of-fact tone echoing from the well. "He said it's about a mile away. Twenty minutes there, twenty back. Once he returns, we'll be able to get you out of that damn thing."

"Assuming he actually finds a ladder there." Sylvia uttered morbidly. "If he doesn't, then what?"

While he didn't have an answer, Oswald promised, "I am _not_ going to leave you down there, Pigeon."

"I know you're not."

Oswald bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. They _had_ to change the subject.

He asked, consolable, "How's your wrist?"

"It's sore. I can move it, but it hurts. No hospital visit needed. Or a doctor."

"Are you certain of that?"

"They're not going to tell me anything I don't already know. Sprained wrist. Ice, elevation, blah blah blah blah."

Oswald shared her cynical chortle.

 _Keep the conversation going._

"You were great by the way—the way you handled Reese's bodyguards." Oswald told her.

"Thank you. I do what I can."

"You really do know how to move quickly."

"Like a ninja," Sylvia said with a small laugh. "You were quite the marksman."

Oswald smirked, hearing her praise. He returned the sound of approval: "Mr. Bell would be proud."

She was a little quiet before she returned gratefully, "Thank you for saying so."

A minute of silence passed between them.

Oswald sighed, "There's a liquor store on the way back."

"Interested in paying for it or hiring a thief to steal the good stuff on the top shelf? I have the number for a pretty good one; she's kinda short, red-headed, and she moves like a ninja." Sylvia returned cynically, but Oswald heard the faintest giggle and that made him smile.

A moment of silence passed again.

"I might get another IUD." Sylvia stated.

Oswald was, once more, startled by the sudden approach of a topic: about birth control of all things. But it kept the silence at bay, allowing for calm and tranquility.

Sensing his surprise, she added, "I was just thinking…or rather, I guess I _have_ been thinking…After everything that happened with Demetri, having another child might not be the smartest thing for parents to do. Not in our kind of business anyway."

"Do you want to discuss this _now_?"

"Why, do you have somewhere else to be?"

Once again, he heard her cynical tone: perhaps her sarcasm allowed her fear of entrapment to lose its power over her. Perhaps it was her only way of staying so patient, and not panicking as she might have done.

He said with resignation, "Is that what you truly feel?"

Sylvia's response came back even softer: "I don't think I could handle it happening a second time, Ozzie. Neither could you. It's not permanent you know, just a few years so that…You know…Should there ever be a chance when Gotham isn't as hectic or as violent?"

Oswald was silent. Mulling it over, really. The fact that their lives were so chaotic, so dangerous that it left the idea of having another child in the future almost too faint—a wish they might've wanted to come true but knew that, at least for now, that wish was unrealistic. And irresponsible. Perhaps at another time when their lives were more tamed and domesticated, they could be the old-fashioned family, having picnics at parks…

"Oswald? Are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"Are you okay with it?"

"Yes. I am."

"Good. I thought you were angry. You never said anything."

"I was just thinking."

Sylvia asked, "What about?"

Oswald said gently, "Have you ever wondered what our lives would be like if I wasn't Penguin and you were not Lark?"

"Wondering what our lives would be like if neither of us went into the business of crime, you mean? You finished telling me tonight that you've never once regretted the decision of marrying me, but, now, you're wondering whether I regret choosing you as my husband? Is that what you're asking me?"

"Yes, exactly that."

"If I had not found you, Oz…I'd be lost." Sylvia answered softly.

"'Lost'?"

"Yeah. 'Lost'. I wouldn't have met you, and I would have probably ended up in some ditch or doing something I'd regret in some dingy alley with a criminal who doesn't know fuck-all about anything…I'd probably be stuck in a hell hole—Well, a hole worse than _this_ hole." Sylvia explained. "Whether you feel it, believe it, I think you should know that if I could do it all over again, I'd still choose you."

"Does that include the part about you falling in the well?"

"Absolutely."

"That's reassuring."

"It should be." Sylvia sighed. "What about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"If you never went into this kind of business, where do you think you would be?"

"I don't know." Oswald answered honestly. His voice broke: "I know Mother would still be alive."

"Don't do that to yourself, sweetheart."

Oswald glanced down the well when the glow of her flashlight waved. When he met her eyes, she looked at him imploringly, her simple gaze filling him with a warmth that only hers could emulate.

"As Mayor," Oswald vowed, "I'm going to implement a plan to have this well removed."

"I'd sign that petition. Without hesitation. Get that train moving, and the wheels rolling. I'll happily conduct." Sylvia said, smirking up at him.

"Woot woot!"

Sylvia giggled from below.

* * *

The sound of feet rustling through the woods first had Oswald on his feet, holding his own gun up to whomever was about to approach but he lowered it with relief when it was Victor and the Twins coming back.

Victor held a ladder over his head.

"We're lucky there was one in there," He said pointedly. "Looked like everything might have been stolen. They even took a flashlight…"

"Was it a big one?" Sylvia's voice ascended from the well.

"Bout a medium sized one. The ladder was there, and a canoe. Looked like there was a place for a flashlight, but we didn't…Oh! There it is!" Victor exclaimed when Sylvia turned on the light and it flooded the well to reveal what she and Oswald already knew.

The twins jumped back and let out disgusted shrieks while Victor simply stared down, seeing Sylvia's clothes tattered from the branches and brambles, and how she looked up at him cynically, standing on dead animals and opposite of a currently decomposing camper.

"I guess we found the flash light, guys," Victor sighed, glancing up to see that the twins were throwing up near a bush a few feet away.

Oswald and Victor worked the ladder into the well; thank goodness the designer of the well had made it wide enough to allow such an escape out of a sticky situation. Sylvia took hold of the ladder's edge, dropping the flashlight down on the ground with little care, and started climbing up.

They held each leg until Sylvia reached the fourth to last rung; Oswald grabbed her forearms, helping her over the edge. Victor peered down the well, his nose curling at the smell.

"Are you okay, Liv?"

"Yeah," Sylvia said, exhaling deeply.

"Reese knew we were coming after her," Victor uttered unhappily. "I guess she decided to take the rest of us out with her."

"It appears that way." Oswald said distractedly; his attention was on Sylvia as he caressed her face, looking her over briefly.

"Did the car not start?" She asked.

"Car starts, but the gas tank is pretty low." Victor answered. "I figured we'd waste time trying to look for a ladder rather than trying to walk back to the city. Or was I wrong?"

"You were right." Jack and Joel agreed.

"Can you walk?" Oswald asked.

"Yeah." Sylvia answered.

She slowly rose to her feet, grimacing.

They walked back to the car. Victor opted to drive. Meanwhile, Oswald took the passenger seat, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check on Sylvia; she sat in between the twins who were respectful enough of her plight to stay quiet on the way back to the city.


	24. The Night The Trio Drank Together

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Night The Trio Drank Together

* * *

Prior to the trip back to the mansion, Victor pulled into the parking lot to the nearest liquor store where the Kabuki Twins headed inside, each returning to the car with brown bags full of alcohol. First, the twins were dropped off at the apartment they both shared, procuring their own brown bag (as payment for their participation in taking down Reese); Victor drove the Cobblepots back to the mansion.

As Sylvia stepped out of the car, Victor poked his head out of the driver's window and called her name. She walked over to him; Oswald remained standing at the passenger's side, attentively waiting for her.

"Yeah?" Sylvia answered, looking at Victor through the open window.

The hitman held out his hand. She took it, and he kissed the back of it.

"Are you going to be alright?" He asked curiously.

"Of course."

"When I thought about taking down Reese, I had no idea that it was going to be a huge _thing._ "

Sylvia chuckled, "I admit, falling down into a well full of roadkill and a dead human wasn't on my agenda either, but it's cool, bud."

"So, you're okay?"

Sylvia glanced at Oswald, who returned her smile. Pointedly, she replied: "I'm perfect."

"Well, I'm sure that has some intentional meaning behind it since you said it while gazing into Penguin's eyes," Victor stated ironically. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, saying, "But if it's all the same to you, Kiddo, I'm heading home."

"No midnight contracts to fulfill? No unmentionable partners to slaughter?"

Victor grinned: "Don't tease me _now—_ at least, not in front of your husband."

That made Sylvia laugh, although she touched her side with a temporary wince. While the dead animals had most definitely enabled her to stay alive by breaking her fall, and lessening her injuries down to a sprained wrist and possible bruises, there was likely a lot more damage than she cared to admit. Just laughing made her side squeeze with an uncomfortable sharp twist.

"Besides," Victor added. He patted the brown bag left in the passenger seat. "I planned on taking the twins up on their idea of a good time."

"Drinking until you pass out, you mean?"

"Something like that."

"Just do me a favor."

"Anything."

"Don't drunk dial me." Sylvia said, smirking at him.

"Oh, now you have jokes. I'll see you later." Victor said, shaking his head although he smiled. As Sylvia waved good-bye to him, he poked his head out of the window once more, waving to Oswald, "See ya later, Boss!"

Oswald simply acknowledged him, then as the car reversed and drove out of the driveway, his attention was drawn back to Sylvia.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Five-by-five, baby." Sylvia answered, flashing him a smile. "Five-by-five."

* * *

Coming out of the mansion, appearing more than concerned and yet simultaneously relieved was Edward Nygma. He still wore a business suit: a sort of dusty forest green theme, white long-sleeve, and black tie. He held the door open, lips parted, ready to ask a multitude of questions but Oswald waved him down, and Ed clammed up his interrogation.

Yet, he had reason to worry.

Neither Oswald nor Sylvia had left any sort of message stating where they were going, what they had been doing, or with whom they had gone. Granted, Ed had already figured out that with the absence of a message came an answer in a more or less cryptic, and yet obvious form: it was all illegal.

Sylvia had come back with red scratches on her face and arms; her clothes tattered, and the foul odor of a dead animal lingered around and on her; her shoes were sopping wet, and she looked done in. Ed quickly took the brown bag of liquor from her, offering to carry it in; he placed it on the kitchen counter.

"I'm going to…" Sylvia yawned, gesturing over her shoulder in the direction of the master bathroom.

"Of course." Oswald returned.

"Is anyone going to tell me what happened?" Ed asked, glancing between them. "Why is she hurt? Where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is—Gabriel said Dagger and Chilly were with you two, where are _they_? And—"

" _Ed_."

Ed cleared his throat softly, embarrassed, as Sylvia had addressed him. Oswald glanced between the two of them, although he was mindfully aware to the fact that Ed had been worried sick over not just Sylvia, but for him as well. And he couldn't help the familiar feeling of love swell in his chest, smiling inwardly as Ed exercised a sense of patience.

"Oswald can tell you what happened," Sylvia said, gesturing to her husband indicatively. "In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower since I _reek—_ as you can tell. Darling" (Oswald looked at her) "Do you care to throw these in the fire?"

She took off her shoes, and tapped them onto the kitchen tile with the side of her foot. Her boots were covered in mud, mulch, leaves, and—thanks to the well—were soiled and drenched with the sewage that had come with the entire experience.

"It's a shame," Sylvia stated as she peeled her leather jacket off, tossing it down over the shoes. "I liked those boots."

"A good wash and they might be wearable again," Ed offered helpfully.

"Not likely."

"Why is that?"

"Animal decay." Sylvia answered, curling her nose at the smell. "It's like when a dog gets sprayed by a skunk—the only way to get rid of the smell is to douse the mutt in tomato sauce, and even _that_ doesn't work sometimes. A dog, I'd save. Boots can be replaced. I'm going to take a shower, maybe get drunk later."

She quickly left for the bathroom; Oswald and Ed watched her leave, then glanced at each other.

"What the hell happened?" Ed asked.

Oswald wordlessly took the liquor bottles out of the brown bag, which was seconds later tossed into the garbage can. Just as silently, he took three glasses down from the cabinet, filled each halfway with ice, and then added bourbon. Ed smiled, leaning his back against the kitchen sink, minding him.

"A lot happened." Oswald answered finally, taking a sip from his glass; he handed Ed the second one.

"Dolores Reese."

Taken aback, Oswald blinked: "Excuse me?"

"Dolores Reese," Ed repeated. "Sylvia mentioned her to me. She and Zsasz were pursuing her, collecting a debt that she once owed Falcone and, thereby, owed you."

"Precisely."

"Dagger and Mr. Chilly were usually her go-to gorillas for back-up," Ed stated plainly. He raised an eyebrow, saying, "I was surprised they did not go with her…or with you."

"They were drunk." Oswald answered unhappily.

"And Gabriel?"

"Also incapacitated."

"So, it was just you, Zsasz, and Sylvia."

Oswald chuckled sarcastically, "And so begins the tailspin of a good story. Jack and Joel, the twins who work at Sylvia's nightclub, ended up coming to the countryside with us."

Ed frowned: "I thought they were incompetent."

"I thought that as well. However, it _is_ amazing what dense people are capable of when they really want to impress their mistress."

"So, they're not completely useless."

"No. Not completely."

"Well, that's reassuring." Ed said with a curt nod.

It was so subtle. But, for Oswald, he could have seen the falter in his friend's relief from such a far distance away.

"You're brooding, Ed."

"Am I?"

"I know you are. What's wrong?"

Ed placed his drink on the counter stating logically, "Sylvia has an insatiable need to help people."

"No argument there," Oswald agreed, taking another drink from his glass; this time, it was a long one.

"It just reminds me of a conversation you and I had once before."

"About?"

"Weakness." Ed answered, lowering his voice.

Oswald tilted his head to the side curiously; he was vaguely aware to what conversation Ed was referring, but it had been such a long time ago. While he was certain Ed meant nothing against Sylvia and her passion for helping people, Oswald couldn't assuage his need to defend her; a protective urge that she often felt for him, he now felt for _her_.

"What about it?" Oswald asked defensively.

He chose this opportunity to pick up and take Sylvia's beaten shoes into the living room, throwing them each into the fireplace, per her request. Luckily, Olga had kept the fire burning long enough until Ed had returned to the office, and it appeared as though Ed had stayed up waiting for his friends—the fire was still burning bright.

Oswald sat on the couch; his friend joined him.

"You must have admitted it to yourself if to no one else," Ed said lowly (so that if Sylvia happened to walk into the room, she wouldn't be able to overhear their conversation). "She has the same problem Gordon has."

Oswald scoffed, "Jim Gordon and Sylvia have the same temper, and brusque mannerisms, but she _does not_ have the same White Knight complex."

"She has something much worse: She feels the need to give people a second chance, to let them prove themselves because of what _she_ had to do in the past." Ed stated darkly. "She watched you fight tooth and nail to become King of Gotham; she has seen all of what you had to do in order to get to the top—she doesn't want anyone else to go through all of that. And while that's an admirable trait, don't get me wrong, it leaves room for deception and people do take advantage; namely, Brittany, Delilah, Demetri—and now, quite possibly, the Kabuki twins."

Oswald turned to his friend plainly: "So, what are you saying?"

"Just like your mother and Ms. Kringle, Sylvia's desire to help and mentor young minds, _younger_ criminals, is **her** crippling weakness."

"I already know this."

"You've allowed the twins to endear themselves to her?"

"I've not allowed _anything_ to happen," Oswald returned patiently. He drank the last of the bourbon, placing his glass on the coffee table, adding pointedly, "I've not allowed anything to happen because I do not have that power over her. An employee, she may be, but she's also more than that. Contrary to what you may know or think, I've had this exact conversation with her."

"And how did it go?"

"Not very well." He answered, glancing over the couch.

He listened and was satisfied to hear Sylvia's singing coming from the bathroom; odds are, she was still bathing.

"Do you think you can trust the twins?"

"Sylvia seems to."

"Well, that's all grand, but Demetri—"

Oswald interrupted him calmly: "I still have my reservations about the twins. It's true that Sylvia's judgment has not been at its best—she's acknowledged that. I believe that the whole Demetri chapter is over now, and she—well, _we—_ have learned something from it.

"More importantly: I trust her. I expect that you do as well?"

"I'd trust her with my life and everything and everyone in it." Ed agreed. "She does a good job of keeping the two of us safe—being the defender, that she is; kudos to her, you know. And while it's all well having Zsasz in the pocket, and your henchmen at bay, I still have to wonder."

"What?"

"The Queen's job is to protect the King, and, by definition, the entire kingdom. And she's efficient at it. But, who, pray tell, protects the Queen?"

Oswald sighed, "Dagger, Chilly, the Kabuki twins, and Victor seem to do a good job of that. I'm guessing that's what her people are for."

"I meant 'from herself'."

"Fair point."

Ed and Oswald exchanged meaningful glances when Sylvia strolled into the living room, humming _Fur Elise_ under her breath. Even in a hum, she could still match a perfect pitch, the softest vibrato. Both gentlemen smiled at her as she acknowledged them with a wave, taking her ready-made drink from the counter, and walked back into the bathroom to complete her bathing regimen.

"She keeps us alive," Ed said softly. "Perhaps the job of keeping her safe from herself falls on you. After all, you have her heart—the keeper of it, so to speak."

"I'd say as you are my Chief of Staff, the job falls on you as well." Oswald pointed out, smiling at him coyly. "After all, she trusts _you_ too."

"A thankless job but a rewarding one," Ed chuckled; he briefly walked into the kitchen and came back with the bourbon, topping off his own drink while refilling Oswald's glass. He placed the bottle on the coffee table, and the two men raised their glasses.

"Long live the Queen." Ed said with a smile.

Oswald shared the toast; their glasses made a small _clink_ and they both drank to Sylvia's good health.

"So, what did Jack and Joel do in order to endear themselves to her?" Ed asked, reclining back in the seat.

"She dared them to fight her; they did reasonably well."

"Are they insane?"

"Mentally stable, as far as I know."

"She went easy on them, I imagine."

Oswald chuckled, "That's what I think happened. For what it's worth, they did manage to disarm her."

"That's an achievement." Ed commended. "I'm guessing they know how to shoot?"

"Provided they work on their aim, yes."

"And I'm given to understand that Sylvia will be assisting them in marksmanship."

Oswald said lightly, "Assuming they get through what I have planned."

A feline's grin curved Ed's mouth; he leaned forward interestedly, asking, "What do you have planned?"

"You're aware that we do background checks on all of our staff?"

"Criminal background checks, yes, of course." Ed said, nodding. "I would be correct in assuming that you have something a lot more invasive planned for these two? Considering the fact that they'll be working more directly with her as more than just waiters and bartenders, thereby getting closer to her."

"You _are_ correct."

"Demetri spent more than nine months with Liv…He practically was on her hip everywhere she went. Seeing as Jack and Joel are taking on the same role, I would hope that this phase of interrogation will be vigorous."

"Victor will be running point. What does _that_ tell you?"

"That tells me they are in for a world of hurt." Ed said with a low whistle. "Their new job orientation will be shockingly aggressive. I doubt they'll expect that…I almost feel bad for them."

"Honestly, I have no choice."

Ed smiled apologetically: "I wasn't being critical, by any means. In fact, if you had not already implemented it, it would have been my suggestion."

"It has been on my mind for some time."

"I understand why it would be. It's been on mine for a while." Ed agreed. He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably adding, "It's amazing, actually. What all Sylvia has gone through and yet, she's basically the same person I talked to at the GCPD. We used to go back and forth with riddles, trying to stump each other."

"Were you in love with her, then?"

"No. Not then. I was still pining after Ms. Kringle."

The jealousy and feeling of possession he felt for Sylvia when Ed spoke of his infatuation with her was nearly non-existent, Oswald noticed. They'd come a long way when it concerned his wife and the effect of which she had on both of them.

But there was that grappling, nudging hold of jealousy that Oswald felt in his chest. But not for the same reason as it might have been before. If anything, Oswald now felt a little jealous hearing the fondness in Ed's voice as he spoke of Sylvia, but this time he was jealous of _her_.

"Sylvia was a lot more impulsive in the past," Ed observed, and his voice brought Oswald back from his reverie. "Granted, back then, I wasn't too aware of her extracurricular activities. I knew she was mischievous, but, at the time, I had no idea that she was committing murder left and right."

Oswald smiled in reminisce. Ed noticed.

"What?" He asked, interested.

Oswald said smoothly, "You know, it's funny. I could literally watch Sylvia torture anyone—man, woman—and be comfortable with the display; I wouldn't be bothered by it at all. However, the idea of someone even _thinking_ of hurting her sends me _through_ the roof."

"Are you planning on telling her what you have in store for them?"

"Not tonight."

"And if she finds out from someone else?"

Oswald sighed, leaning back in the seat as well, getting more comfortable: "I'd like to cross that bridge when we get to it."

Ed clasped his hands together, saying, "I understand your role as her employer, assuming that's what you're currently acting as rather than her husband, but if I know her as well as I think I do, she will not take kindly to finding out about a brutal interrogation charged by you and enacted by Victor."

Oswald glanced at him: "You're right. She will not like the idea of her new students being harmed."

Ed waited for him to change his mind.

However, instead, he said softly: "If you want to protect someone close to you, you mustn't think like a protector. You must always think like a conqueror first."

"So, by that logic, you're acting as her boss first and her lover second in order to achieve the reverse."

Oswald laughed, genuinely. Ed raised his eyebrows in surprise.

When Oswald's laugh sobered, he explained, "Sylvia used to tell me that all the time. 'You're my lover first, and my boss second'. It was the reason behind anything she did in order to protect me from my enemies or whatever might endanger my life. It was also her segue to the insubordination that usually followed. So, it's ironic and comical that I'm using the same modus operandi to do the exact same thing."

"She certainly does have her way of turning a phrase." Ed agreed. "There are few times I've been at a loss for words—she has caught me off guard with her colorful verbiage a time or two."

"Sylvia's mostly crass and blunt, crude at best. But she has a talent for polishing her words with silver, when she wants them to shine," Oswald murmured admirably as he peered at his glass.

"On the highlight of that, at least what she says is honest…9 out of 10 times."

"Stainless steel words, plated gold."

"If that's not an accurate representation of her, I don't know what is," Ed complimented.

Oswald and Ed mirrored each other in the same agreement and their eyes shifted towards the entrance between the hallway that led from the bathroom to the kitchen, from where Sylvia strolled. In a sapphire blue robe that was tied off in the front, she walked completely into the room, holding an unopened bottle of vodka; in the other hand, a bottle of cranberry juice—per her usual.

She nodded to the middle cushion and asked teasingly, "Is this seat taken, gents?"

Both of them gestured openly to the seat and Sylvia plopped down.

Only when her legs were bare and her arms completely exposed did Oswald realize just how forceful her body had been thrown through the bramble of thorns and sharp branches in the woods. At minimal damage, the scratches were shallow as paper cuts; at the worst, there were bruises on her elbows and knees from where she likely hit the ground floor of the well, and a long gash that started from her right shoulder and ended at her wrist—likely the act of a gnarled, sharp branch.

Apparently, Oswald and Ed's expressions were hardly subtle since Sylvia smiled reassuringly at them, patting both of them on their legs, saying, "It's not nearly as bad as it looks, trust me."

"Are you _sure_ you don't need to see a doctor?" Ed asked.

"No. I'm fine."

"I could call one…"

"I _know_ one," Sylvia reminded. "If I needed one, I'd call her. But I don't need one, so I won't. Like I said, it looks a lot worse than it is. The bleeding has stopped, at least. It's not nearly as deep as it seems."

"That might leave a scar," Ed said, running his hand over the arm that looked the worst; he carefully touched the gash, adding, "Worst-case scenario, it gets infected."

"Well, that's what soap is for."

"Do you have a First Aid kit?" Ed asked Oswald, glancing past Sylvia to question him.

"Cabinet under the bathroom sink," Oswald answered distractedly. He sat up, looking Sylvia over while Ed removed himself from the living room and promptly headed into the bathroom to retrieve it. "Darling, are you _sure—"_

"I said I am _fine,"_ Sylvia laughed. "I don't need a hospital trip. I was just discharged—I don't need to go back. Besides," (Ed came back to the living room hurriedly.) "I've got Doctor Nygma here, to the rescue."

Taking his original seat back, Ed smiled when he heard her playful name for him. Ed held up her right hand, looking it over to see what all items from the kit he would need. After, with a flourish, he opened the First Aid and unwrapped the gauze and elastic bandages, working diligently as ever. For a better light, he took her hand and placed it on his lap.

Just as he did, a familiar ringing was heard from the kitchen. Ed, Oswald, and Sylvia all looked at one another with the same exasperation as one could present in a face, but Sylvia stood, excusing herself; she strode into the kitchen, picked up her phone off the counter, and as she strode back to the living room, she answered it.

"Hey," She answered coolly.

"Vale made it out of surgery." Jim told her.

"Are you _still_ there?"

"I had to make sure she recovered."

"Aren't you sweet. I'm sure as your girlfriend, Vale will appreciate you doing that."

"Well…"

Sylvia heard his hesitation.

She said sarcastically, "What happened? Did you get over your stupid infatuation with her and decide that maybe you and Lee are actually—oh, I don't know—meant to be together, and you took my advice by telling her exactly how you feel?"

Oswald and Ed exchanged half-smiles, knowing the interactions between the two siblings were, optimistically, catty. Sylvia replaced Ed's lap with her hand once more and he continued working on it, washing it (she hissed) with soap and water before rubbing antibiotic ointment on her.

"She and I are through," Jim told her grumpily. "She thinks…"

"She thinks what?" Sylvia asked. When he didn't come right out with it, she said forcefully, "She thinks _what_?"

"She thinks I told Tetch to shoot Lee because Tetch—"

"—Reverse Psychology 101? —"

"—Basically—"

"So, did you?"

"Did I what?" Jim asked defensively.

"Did you tell Tetch to kill Lee so he would try to kill Vale instead?" Sylvia asked bluntly, earning a curious glance from both gentlemen around her.

"Of course, I didn't!"

"Of course, you didn't," Sylvia repeated skeptically. "Because you _obviously_ wanted to kill Lee. Because you were _so_ in **love** with that reporter."

"Stop it."

"I'm just saying."

"Well, you've said enough."

"Basically, Vale knows you love Lee." Sylvia stated coolly. "By that standpoint, you're dumped."

"Basically, yeah."

"So, now what?"

"I don't know."

"No, there's more." Sylvia probed, looking up at the ceiling. "It's two in the morning; you're leaving the hospital _now_ even though I'm sure Vale dumped you about four or five hours ago, which makes me think you're _not_ at the hospital. Where are you?"

"I'm at my apartment."

"Wrong."

"What do you mean 'wrong'?"

"I mean, you're lying to me."

"I'm not lying. I'm in my apartment now."

"Can anyone attest to that?"

"You _know_ I live alone, and I'm not in the mood to be interrogated."

Sylvia chuckled, "I know. I just wanted you to get a taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end of one of your phone calls."

Jim was quiet and then he laughed wryly, "I guess I deserved that, didn't I?"

"I guess you did. How are you feeling?"

"I'll be honest: I'm kinda tired."

"So, go to sleep."

"I can't."

"Why not."

"Tetch is still out there—"

"You can't find Tetch if you're sleep deprived," Sylvia told him. "Tetch is also probably long gone."

"He's still in Gotham."

"I never said he was gone-gone."

"He's still out there though."

"So he is." Sylvia returned apathetically. "And you want to bring him back to justice, and all that jazz. How will you be doing that if you're not sleeping because you're worried about him being out there? Even if he's plotting something, there's not much you can do right now anyway."

"True."

"And you don't have to worry about Lee, if that's your next concern. She's living with a Falcone. If anyone tries to go after _her_ , they've got the father-in-law to deal with," Sylvia reminded.

"Of course."

"So, get some sleep."

"How are you doing?"

" _Get some sleep, Jim_." Sylvia emphasized. "I'll talk to you later, 'kay?"

"Sure. Love you, Vee."

"I love you too."

He hung up; she did as well. She threw the phone onto the coffee table.

"I bet it's great being a fly on the wall for your holiday social gatherings," Ed said with a delighted chuckle. He patted her arm which was now bandaged completely, taped in such an organized fashion that Sylvia had to admire it for a second with astonishment.

"Thank you, Doctor Nygma."

"You are quite welcome, Patient Zero."

Sylvia and Ed shared a congenial snicker as Ed moved to put the First Aid kit back. In his absence, Sylvia looked at Oswald expectantly.

Seeing her, Oswald looked at her, startled: "What?"

"What do you mean 'what'? Have you told him?" Sylvia whispered.

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"I'm having trouble finding the right time," Oswald admitted.

"Now's a perfect time." Sylvia reminded. "Middle of the night. Neither of you are drunk yet, and, come to think of it, neither am I but I plan on remedying that, trust me."

"It's not that easy."

"Well, when you told me you loved me, you kinda just blurted it out. So that might just be your method, sweetheart."

"That was on accident."

Sylvia smiled and kissed him playfully on the nose, saying, "I know. But I thought it was the most adorable thing in the entire world. Would it be easier to tell him if I wasn't here?"

"I'm not so sure." Oswald said as he nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I'm at a disadvantage, for the moment."

"A disadvantage? How?"

"I've only done this once."

"What does that matter?" Sylvia asked. "What, you think you need experience in professing your love for someone to make it memorable?"

Oswald said nothing so she got the gist. She smiled and said gingerly, "Sweetheart, I've told about four or five people, excluding family, that I love them. There's not a methodical approach to it—there never is when the heart is involved. Things get pretty messy actually…a little muddy…Basically, instead of a lovely, brick-laid path with markers, it's a filthy-ass fucking trip up a hill covered with stones that came from only god-knows-where covered in only god-knows-what—"

"Sylvia!"

She looked at him curiously.

"You're _not_ making this any easier!" Oswald exclaimed nervously. "You're actually making this a lot worse."

"I can tell you how I told my first love if it makes you feel any different." She offered.

"Sure, why not. Just let me…" Oswald trailed off; he leaned forward, took the bottle of vodka she had carried from the kitchen and filled his glass a third time. "If I have to listen to a story about one of your exes, I'm going to need one of _these_."

"Alexander Beals," said Sylvia coolly, looking up at the ceiling as though she was praying to a god to erase that unfortunate mistake from her past—to which Oswald found amusing, and appreciated her scathing noise that came after once she'd declared the name of her first (however unfortunate) lover.

"Is this the one...?" Oswald said and he gesticulated the rest of the question by clicking his tongue twice and made a gesture of his hand away from her immediately after.

"Yep that's the one—It was 'wham, bam, thank you, ma'am'. He hit it and quit it and didn't even leave a tip."

Oswald was in the middle of taking a drink and hearing her brazen confirmation, he nearly choked. Sylvia looked at him worriedly, patting his back a little.

"I didn't mean it that way, I—" He apologized.

"I know, Sweetheart," Sylvia said, patting his thigh. "But it's the truth. _Before_ he decided to fuck me and proceed to disappear three weeks after—for lack of a better phrase— 'popping my cherry'," (Oswald took a drink) "we were very much infatuated with each other. He was a couple years older than me. I was twenty-one…I think I was anyway, I don't know. Those days are really blurry—I was drunk a lot. Anyway, he took me to the docks, told me I was the most special person in the _entire_ world and how he couldn't bear to think of spending any time on this world without me…"

"This sounds more like a proposal." Oswald said curiously.

"Honestly, I didn't even think _that_. I thought he was about to tell me he won the lottery and he was leaving my broke ass," She admitted crassly, rolling her eyes a second later. "Given the circumstances, I wished he'd have done that instead; at least then, I might've been a virgin for a few more years and had a more memorable experience to go with my first time, you know?"

"I _wouldn't_ know." Oswald uttered.

Sylvia smirked, asking, "Should I stop talking about my past relationships now?"

"No. It's fine. Go on."

"You sound a little uncomfortable, is all."

"I'm not uncomfortable."

"Just a little jealous, it sounds like."

Oswald sent her a look.

Sylvia grinned: "You wish you were _my_ first time, don't you, Ozzie?"

"Seeing as I am the last person with whom you will ever become so intimate," He said defensively, "I think I have a substantial claim in wanting to be the first…But that's not the point of this trivial tale, is it?"

Sylvia chuckled, "For you, I'll cut the story short: Alex had a habit of popping in, every now and then, wouldn't explain why he was gone for so long. One day, he came back out of the blue, took me to the docks, and told me he loved me."

"Was it spoken so casually?"

"No. He stuttered it out. It was like pulling teeth."

Oswald smirked, saying, "Oh, well, that's good to hear."

"Yeah, I figured you'd like that."

"Did you feel the same way?"

"About what?"

"About him?" Oswald asked.

There was a possessive edge to his tone, and Sylvia detected it; however, there was a protective lining to it as well. After all, Oswald knew that Alexander Beals had used her as a conquest—the 'hit it and quit it' method as Sylvia expressed was crass, but accurate.

"I did." She confessed, smiling a little. "I cared for Alex a _great_ deal. We knew each other about as long as you and I knew each other before…Well, you know." She winked at him. "He was in and out of jail frequently; he didn't think I knew about his criminal background, but I did."

"Because of Jim?" asked Oswald knowingly.

"Because of Jim," she confirmed.

"And did James Gordon do background checks on _all_ of your potential beaus?"

"Every single one."

"That certainly explains his aggressive response when he found out you and I were together."

"Well, that, and you were supposed to be dead since he 'allegedly' killed you on Falcone's orders."

"Also, true," Oswald snickered. He looked at her seriously, "So…How do you think Ed would react if I did the same thing?"

"What? Hit it and quit it? I don't think he'd appreciate that—He's a sensitive man."

" _You know that is not what I meant_."

Sylvia smirked; Oswald had an aggressive reaction, himself. His facial cues were so expressively defensive and outraged at such a careless and insensitive thought it made Sylvia nearly regret joking about it.

"I know you have no intention of doing that," Sylvia reassured quickly, patting his leg. "You're a sweet, caring, kind, thoughtful man."

Seeing as her words had smoothed him out, stroking his feathers back into place so to speak, Oswald slowly reclined back into his seat; the room was hotter than usual so he loosened his tie and relaxed his collar.

"Were you ever this worked up when you were thinking of telling _me_ how you felt?" She asked curiously.

"Do you even have to ask that question?"

"Why, because I might know the answer?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think by answering questions with another question, our conversation is on a loop but our communication is clear." Sylvia said softly; she leaned into him and kissed him on the lips.

He returned it.

"For what it's worth, Sweetheart," Sylvia uttered, "regardless of what Ed says, you'll always have me. You may not be my first, but you are, by far, the most memorable."

Ed came back in the room, muttering, "I couldn't find any bandages to replace the ones in the First Aid kit."

Sylvia quickly licked Oswald's cheek; he startled, but then smiled when she straightened; her head reclined onto the back of the couch so she could rest her neck.

"Send Dagger to get more," She told Ed. "That's the penalty for getting drunk when he was supposed to be—you know— _working_."

"I'm guessing you'll be having a nice long talk with your employees tomorrow." Ed assumed.

"A nice chat, indeed, Mr. Riddles." Sylvia sighed. "A nice little chat."

"What's your policy on negligence?" He inquired. "Most employers would give them a slap on the wrist. Something tells me you're a stricter supervisor than the usual run-of-the-mill managers."

"I'm actually pretty casual, a lot of my business is informal. This one," She said, gesturing to Oswald, "used to be the disciplinarian."

"What do you mean 'used to be'?" Oswald questioned.

"Still are, then."

Ed allowed himself a small laugh, saying to Oswald, "Sounds like a well-oiled machine. She's running the crew, and if they get out of line, they deal with _you_."

"I typically try to deal with it first before it escalates up the chain of command." Sylvia mused as she rubbed her eyes.

Oswald said coolly, "For that reason, Gabe—and everyone else in our employ—calls her 'Mother Hen'."

Sylvia opened her eyes, and said incredulously, "They do _not_ call me that."

"Not to your face, anyway." Ed explained, sharing a delightful smirk with Oswald. "Oops. It appears we dropped the ball on this one, didn't we, Mr. Mayor."

"It certainly appears that way, my Chief of Staff."

"Get the hell out of here," Sylvia said, shaking her head as she closed her eyes again. "They do _not_ call me that."

"I would love more than anything to say that it was all a joke, but one cannot dispel a truth." Oswald sighed as he took a drink from his glass, telling Ed, "And, if we are being honest, the nickname is well-deserved. The last group of young men and women who used to work for me, she called them her 'kiddos'. Even the Kabuki twins—"

Ed chimed in: "They received some tenderness at Reese's abode?"

"The two of them had trouble loading a gun," Oswald explained, gesturing towards the front door indicating the incident. " _She_ spent the next thirty minutes teaching them how to do it. The moment he fumbled, _I_ would have sent him and his brother off with their walking papers—"

"—His name is Jack, sweetie—"

"—Whatever," Oswald said dismissively. "They had _target_ practice. On _trees_."

"Well, they couldn't shoot any _living_ people considering the only people outside at the moment were you, me, and Victor," Sylvia reminded. "And I'd rather them not shoot at the fucking car because, frankly, I wasn't going to walk to Reese's place in the middle of fucking nowhere. So, get off my back, _Sweetheart_."

Oswald smirked, hearing her aggravated tone. The three of them were slowly getting drunk, and it was turning out to be a night full of roasting.

Ed grinned broadly, asking, "So does everyone you hire become a 'kiddo' or does that follow a different standardized protocol? For instance, am I a 'kiddo'?"

"Ed…" Sylvia warned, offering him a sarcastic smile.

"What makes a 'kiddo'?" Ed asked Oswald. "Do I have to be a certain age?"

"Presumably younger than forty, I imagine." Oswald jested.

"But older than…?"

"I doubt there's a minimum requirement..."

"I guess Carmine Falcone wouldn't be a 'kiddo'." Ed joked.

Oswald laughed, "You might be onto something!"

Sylvia sat up, ignoring them. She downed the glass of vodka, wincing terribly when the alcohol caught and seared her throat for the few seconds that followed. She damn near choked! After, she filled her glass halfway with vodka; the other half was cranberry.

"Or maybe," Ed offered excitedly, "the age is irrelevant."

"How so?" Oswald asked seriously.

"Perhaps a 'kiddo' is not so much a reference to one's age as it is to one's own criminal abilities, and by that extent: their experience."

"Oh, see, now you're thinking out of the box. Naturally, I wouldn't expect anything different from you." Oswald complimented, raising his glass to him.

"Well, it's why I am your Chief of Staff, after all."

"So, going by this new rule—assuming one's age is irrelevant and the experience of being a criminal is emphasized—Dagger and Chilly, even Gabe, are excluded." Oswald stated.

"Why, do they have a long history of crime?" Ed asked, glancing between Sylvia and Oswald for clarification.

"Chilly has been neck-deep in gambling problems," Sylvia answered hoarsely (still recovering from the throat assault of the 16-ounce vodka shot). "He was in debt to Falcone, almost over five grand— _ahem—_ Gambling problems and had a lot of issues with loan sharks."

"Wait, so does _he_ still owe Falcone?" Ed asked.

"No," Oswald answered for her. "Some time ago, Sylvia helped Chilly recover from the debt. What debt he once owed Falcone, he, to this day, still owes our dear little Lark."

Sylvia drank from her vodka-cranberry cocktail, drinking it more to assuage her burning throat than anything. She looked at Ed, adding, "He was almost cleared of his debt, actually."

"Until he said 'no' to your Reese execution?" Ed guessed.

"Exactly. Honestly, they had _one_ job: Guard the club. And they failed at _that_."

Oswald slapped the arm of the couch and Ed grinned as he said, "Did I not say how hard it was finding good help these days? We were _just_ talking about that too!"

"If you needed proof!" Ed laughed, gesturing to the mansion. "Here it is!"

"Fantastic," Oswald chortled, shaking his head before he took another sip. "If I had a drink for every time the Help did not come when it was needed…Well, I'd be intoxicated every day!"

Ed let out a snort of laughter, almost spilling his bourbon concoction on him.

"Well, it's a good thing Chilly, Dagger, _and_ Gabriel were excluded from the 'kiddo' excerpt." Ed said amusedly. "Otherwise—"

"They'd get a stern talking to!" Oswald exclaimed, and the two of them burst into laughter again.

Sylvia glanced between them, rolling her eyes.

"Are you all enjoying what you're doing?" She asked pointedly.

"What _are_ we doing?" Ed asked.

"Busting my balls." She answered bluntly.

Oswald and Ed stifled their laughter for a whole second before they erupted into giggles again. Standing, she said politely, "I'm going to go ice my drink."

"Why does Chilly call himself that namesake?" Ed asked as he attempted to sober his laughter for Sylvia's sake.

"He tells people he has 'ice in his veins'." Oswald answered, dramatically quoting his employee with one hand. He rolled his tongue over his teeth for a second in thought, adding, "I imagine if he had that sort of luck on his side, he'd have been better at playing poker."

"Is that how he lost his money? Playing poker?"

"Gambling is a trend-setting sin, my friend. But it pays."

"It pays the casino, you mean."

"Without a doubt. In fact, I thought about opening one." Oswald informed, smiling.

"A casino _would_ be profitable in Gotham. I don't know how great it would be for the people."

"It's something to consider."

"Yes, it is. A marvelous business investment, at least."

"I agree."

"So, what about Dagger?" asked Ed inquisitively. "How long has he been erring?"

"I have no idea." Oswald mused.

"I thought you did background checks on _everyone_."

"All _new_ associates. People like Dagger and Chilly have been around for a fair time. Long enough that if they were ever going to deceive either of us, they'd have done it already." Oswald stated coolly.

"And they're trustworthy?"

"They're morons."

" _Not Dagger_."

Ed and Oswald noticed Sylvia coming back; she carried a freshly iced drink and a knowing smile that made the two of them exchange interested expressions.

"Dagger isn't a moron?" Oswald questioned skeptically. "He's the one who stands at the door all day, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"He doesn't talk, does he?" Ed cared to note.

"Well, just because he doesn't talk much doesn't mean he's a moron." Sylvia reminded. "He knows how to kick a door down the first time, where to pick a lock in a warehouse or abandoned factory, and if you needed a hammer, he could easily make one out of an axe."

"That doesn't mean he is smart, Liv. That's brawn."

"Well, he has his way of being useful."

"And we come to the most _important_ question of all," Ed said dramatically, raising his hands up respectively. "In a city like Gotham, would one prefer to have brawn or brain?"

"That depends." Oswald mused, pointing at him. "Are you asking if I, personally, would prefer one or the other, _or_ are you asking what I prefer my minions to have. That's really the important question, isn't it?"

"I'd rather have the intellect," Ed said immediately. "Brawn is something you can acquire. Strength, physical prowess, that type of thing."

Sylvia chuckled, "You're telling me you're a thin, trim man by choice and not by circumstance?"

"Well, I'm tall and thin and I've been in this form since birth," Ed reasoned.

"Were you born smart?"

"Excuse me?"

"Were you _born_ smart?" Sylvia questioned more sternly.

"Well…" Ed began, smirking.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "No. You weren't. You were _not_ born smart. Cleverness, intellect—all of that—it's learned. You learned that stuff. Just like you learn to become strong."

"Sticking up for Dagger," Ed teased. "I believe you _are_ Mother Hen."

"Fuck you, Riddles." Sylvia responded but she smiled still. "You proposed a simple question, and answered, offering logic behind the decision you've made. I'm simply poking holes in that logic, contributing to the conversation. You say that you'd rather be born smart, because you _are_ smart—by that definition, you may think that Dagger or even Chilly would want to be the brawn because they _are_ brawny. Who is to say that they don't want to be smart _er_? And become bosses themselves?"

Ed said pointedly to Oswald, "Helping people become masters of the universe isn't exactly a weakness, but I can certainly see why it wouldn't be the greatest strength."

Oswald sent him a quick smile of agreement before telling Sylvia, "Not everyone is cut out to be a ruler, Pigeon. Some people have to serve in order for others to be served. It's not perfect, but it's just the way things are. _Especially_ in Gotham, might I add."

"You can add all you want, honey bun, but that doesn't make it anymore correct than what I'm proposing."

"What about you?" Ed asked.

"What about me?"

"What would you rather have?"

"What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"Well," Ed said logically. "As you are, you are physically strong—more than either of us, combined. You can lift people twice your size over your head, and throw them into a wall. Yet, you're obviously intelligent."

"Obviously." Sylvia emphasized, flashing a sly little smile.

"So, which would you prefer?"

"Intellect. _Obviously_. But I had that first before I was strong. Honestly, strength meant nothing to me. Being able to shoot well meant less than nothing to me—I was fine just puncturing holes and cutting throats, but I soon realized that wasn't enough for me." Sylvia told him truthfully. "And I didn't know I wanted any of that."

"When did you?" Ed asked.

"When did I learn all of that or when did I know?"

"Both?"

Sylvia grinned saying, "I learned to fight, thanks to my brother and Mr. Bell. I learned to shoot well because of Victor. Originally, I learned from Victor because I wanted to be a weapon. _His_ weapon." (She referred to Oswald lovingly). "And that was it. Then Galavan happened—"

"—You mean Tabitha? —"

"—No, her brother—"

"—Oh."

Sylvia added, "After Galavan used Gertrud against Oswald, I knew that I never ever wanted to be used as leverage for anyone. So, that's why I became physically strong. And try to be a weapon, a source of power for him to this day."

Oswald said softly, "You _have_ frequently been a source of strength for me."

"That's sweet, honey."

Ed peered at them for a moment, thoughtfully. Then he said, "Let me ask you, two, something."

"Fire away," Oswald and Sylvia said simultaneously.

"If there ever was a time when you two decided that it couldn't work—this whole thing," Ed said, gesticulating to them in reference to their relationship, "At one point would that have been?"

Sylvia looked guiltily at Oswald, expecting him to say Csilla's name, or even mention her death.

"Technically speaking," Oswald admitted, "For a time, we _were_ separated."

"That doesn't count." Sylvia dismissed.

"What time was that?" Ed asked.

"When I was released from Arkham," Oswald reminded. "When I wasn't myself."

"Oh yes, that." Ed muttered, his eyes lowering to the floor immediately. He lifted his gaze to Oswald and said guiltily, "Yes…I have to apologize again. I didn't treat you in the best way I should have and—"

"It's done, and over with. We are passed that now."

"But you two?" said Ed, looking between them. "You were separated? I didn't know that."

"As I said, it was for a time." Oswald explained. (Sylvia drank from her glass.)

As though Ed still had trouble understanding the separation, he asked, "But why?" (He looked at Sylvia.) "Was it _because_ he wasn't himself?"

" _I_ didn't want to leave." Sylvia said coolly.

Ed's eyes widened, glancing at Oswald, who looked as though the memory itself was physically hurting him. And, knowing him, it probably was.

Sylvia said lightly, "Strange made me a trigger in his mind" (she softly stroked the back of her hand over Oswald's cheek, reassuring him that there was no pain between them) "Strange implemented an aversion; whatever terrible things they did to him in Arkham, he was forced to associate that suffering with me. I represented all the things he was programmed to avoid. In order for us to be together, I would have needed to change, but I couldn't afford to; at the time, I was still managing the Underworld, keeping Tabitha and Butch off my back. So, at the time, he couldn't see a future with me."

Ed's mouth was open a little, finding out what sort of pressure that Strange had placed on the Cobblepot's marriage. However, Sylvia seemed more than understanding. Oswald took her hand that was ever so sweetly caressing his face, and folded it into his own.

"What did you do, Liv?" Ed asked incredulously.

Sylvia said with a small smile, "Before I left, I told him that he knew where I was if he needed me and I would be right here, waiting for him, when he remembered who he was."

"Well, at least you two came back together." Ed offered helpfully. "That's all that matters."

"We always find our way back to each other." She uttered gingerly. "Love has a way of doing that."

Ed grinned. He drank the last of his beverage and said tiredly, "Well, I think I'll be calling it a night."

He hugged Sylvia around the shoulders and did the same to Oswald. Ed left shortly after, bidding them a good night, and that he'd see Oswald in the office in the afternoon. Sylvia watched after him, smiling at Oswald, who looked like he was about to do the same.

"You should tell him how you feel tomorrow." Sylvia offered. "Just blurt it out. Don't give yourself time to think about it. If you do, it might be too late."

Oswald narrowed his eyes at her, as though trying to see the depth of her meaning.

"You say that as though you've been through that experience before." He noted.

"I have." She confirmed, standing up steadily.

"For whom did you have that regret?"

"I suspect you think it might be for a past love, but it was actually for you."

Oswald stared at her: " _Me_?"

"Mm-hmm. Before Jim allegedly killed you, I was actually planning on saying 'I love you' myself but I was too afraid to say it." Sylvia confessed, smiling shyly. "I'd said it one too many times, had my heart broken each time, so I was afraid. Before I could say it, I thought you were dead. That was my regret."

"Why did you hesitate?"

"Because, for a while there, I thought maybe you were just like the rest of them."

"Do you still believe that?" He asked.

"No. I was wrong. You're not like the rest of them."

She bent slightly at the waist; her warm hand caressing his face, coaxing him forward. He did so, and her lips brushed ever so gently against his.

"You don't love me because, you love despite; not for my best traits, but despite my faults." Sylvia uttered lovingly. "You would die for me, kill for me; it's what most men offer. That is all nice and well."

Her kiss lingered over his upper lip, beckoning to him. Oswald held her shoulders, keeping her there so he could kiss her back. Tender. Soft.

"But you'd also live for me, and that makes all the difference."

When she kissed him again, her tongue coaxed for his lips to part and they did with little resistance; he felt the vibration of her moan in his mouth, heard it too; the deepened kiss naturally broke, after which she lightly sucked on his bottom lip. He felt her pull away, a dark little smile cradling the corner of her mouth.

"Just so you know, for information sake—I know how much you like information," Sylvia said lightly. "When Alexander Beals fucked me, he _was_ memorable but only as a tadpole. He _was_ sincere; he _was_ sweet, and I loved him a great deal, but if I ever met him again, there would be zero chance of me wanting him."

"Dare I ask why?" Oswald asked.

"He's an idiot."

"What does he do?"

"Well, last I heard, he was working for Carmine. Does a little hitman work down South, but he is nowhere near as professional or you know— _good_ —like Victor." Sylvia told him. "More brawn than brain."

"Does he go by another name?"

"Why, are you looking to settle a few scores?"

"Honestly, the idea _has_ occurred to me." Oswald said seriously. "The disrespect he has shown you in the past irks me."

A sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when Sylvia moved to stand between his legs; he looked up at her defiantly.

"I, personally, wouldn't expend a single ounce of energy on him. Secondly—darling, baby, sweetheart, honey—he really isn't worth your time." Sylvia spoke in a low timbre, her voice nearing a seductive tone.

She leaned forward, her hands on the back of the couch so Oswald leaned back, her arms slightly framed around him so he was—in not so many words—pinned. A slight feeling of claustrophobia started to wrap itself around his brain but the feeling of something prominent, more innate, and primal made his heart race and his stomach turn pleasantly.

"That said," Sylvia uttered delicately. "He goes by the name, 'Rooster'."

"Why that moniker, I wonder?"

"Who knows. Maybe he's still bent out of shape because he left the hen house too fucking early." Sylvia said, shrugging dismissively. "Maybe he crows at dawn—who knows why the idiot does anything."

"Is he a problem for you, Pigeon?"

"Only if he's a problem for you."

"Not at the moment, then."

"Fair enough." Sylvia murmured.

"Why are you only telling me this now?"

"Because you asked."

"And if I hadn't?"

"Well, honestly, you might have eventually figured it out. Rooster ain't smart and he's not big—and I'm not just talkin' reputation either, baby. But he _does_ work for Falcone, and if he ever performed at Victor Zsasz's hype, he'd have a better rep. But Falcone probably knows what I knew first: he's not memorable by Gotham standards, and certainly not by mine. He's forgettable by nature, but memorable only because he _was_ my first and a girl never forgets her first."

She lowered her lips to Oswald's, hers lingering just in front of his so the temptation caused him to move in. When he did, Sylvia pulled back, collected her drink from the table and downed it in one go. Oswald watched her. She returned to him, her hand on his neck as she kissed him again.

"So," he said calmly. "If he came to Gotham, there would be no competition?"

"None." Sylvia breathed. "I would not go to him if I was on fire and he was the only person in the entire world with a glass of water. I'd rather burn."

Oswald said slyly, "Strong words."

"As someone who once lit herself on fire for a dance performance at the Children's Charity gala, I think I can back up those words." Sylvia returned, smirking. "I would not go to him if he was the only doctor and I was literally covered with pins and needles. I'd sooner throw myself in a vat full of lemon juice and salt before doing that."

"Vivid imagery."

"Very vivid."

"Accurate as well?"

"Verrrry…. Accurate." Sylvia said softly, although her voice slightly slurred. The alcohol was getting to her. She'd started to sway a little just by standing; perhaps it was the reason she'd braced herself against the couch instead of keeping her balance, alone.

"You really know how to paint a picture." Oswald commended.

"I can paint another for you, if you like."

"By all means."

Sylvia leaned forward, and whispered against the shell of his ear, "You and me in bed, under the covers. Doing what it is we do best."

"Is that what we do best?" Oswald asked playfully.

"Well, you have an unremarkable talent for loosening tongues, I figure you could use the same principle on something of mine." Sylvia purred, grinning widely at him.

"Oh, really?"

"Really, yes."

"That is what I do best?"

"Among many other things," Sylvia drawled. She ran her hand through his soft raven locks, and kissed his neck with her tongue. "And you can't deny that I'm pretty good in that area as well."

Saying so, she knelt one knee on the cushion beside him and the hand that wasn't tangled in his hair slowly slid from his pant leg and in between his legs, and grazed over his clothed erection, her fingertips teasing him with feather-like strokes.

"But…All of that comes…if you go where the picture was first painted: in the bedroom. Ed had a good idea—about turning in for the night." Sylvia said softly, kissing Oswald on the cheek before she pulled away from him.

She flashed him a coy smile and then headed up the stairs, somehow. She held onto the railing as she ascended.

"Do you need help?" Oswald asked without looking back at her. He chuckled when he heard her say ' _No, I'm good!_ "


	25. Hard To Say 'No'

Chapter Twenty-Five: Hard To Say 'No'

* * *

He didn't know how long he had been standing there. Standing at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets as he watched Sylvia sleep under the heavy silk comforter. Watching, contemplating—wasn't it the same thing, really?

After he had finished his drink, it might have been thirty minutes after Sylvia had gone to bed. To his satisfaction, he was pleased to see that she hadn't been sitting in the bedroom, waiting for him; the time had passed too quickly as he had ruefully scoured his brain, finding ways of confessing his newfound love for his friend, knowing that he wouldn't come up with a definitive answer tonight. Even if he did, he'd doubt its integrity, especially now.

Was he drunk?

That was still up for debate, really.

He'd ascended the stairs easily, although he would admit to no one else that his brain was a little fuzzy, and tripping over his own feet, stumbling through the hallway would not have been his proudest moment should his employees or even Sylvia had seen him.

Or even, Ed.

Luckily, the staff had retired to bed around the same time Ed had gone to his room, so the only people awake were him and his passive, however playful, spirit concocting the most voracious, lewd images in his mind.

First it had started as an idea, then, as Oswald opened the bedroom door, it became something more. Curiosity was kinder to him when he was clear-headed. Never did he feel more daring—that was until tonight.

Sylvia's predilection for teasing him earlier was still very fresh in his memory; the minx who could titillate his mind, and still leave his body yearning for days. If he was in his right mind, Oswald might have dispelled the idea almost immediately, having never acted on such a thought although it had come to him more than a few times before in the entirety of time that he had been with this woman.

How many times had he watched her sleeping beside him? And so quietly. How many times had he stayed up during those late, restless nights, wanting nothing more than to take the edge off with one of their more lecherous trysts that even while they were man and wife, seemed so Rubenesque.

Oswald quietly took off his clothes, the rustling of the material sounded louder than it really was. Moonlight blinking through the closed window blinds, shedding light over the bed, granting him enough vision to see that Sylvia was asleep; even in her slumberous form, she tempted him.

Days—no, weeks—of their going back-and-forth: subtle flirts, idle teasing. Sexual tension boiling beneath the surface; not just for her sake, but for his as well, neither of them had really acted on it.

It was a time for grieving, they'd been telling themselves. Mourning for the child they lost, the daughter they had both sought to protect and yet failed in doing so. The guilt of it weighed on their shoulders so heavily. Passes were made between them during that time, but when did he start feeling this sudden inhospitable need to feed this desire?

Oswald knew.

Sylvia had always been beautiful, a seductress, a siren wearing human's clothing but when they had been going after Reese, Sylvia had been in rare form.

His warrior. His enforcer. The one he relied on when it came to taking down his enemies, who could disarm and disable ten armed bodyguards…She moved faster than any of them combined. Sylvia wasn't just good at what she did, she was effective.

His weapon. His to command (given the right circumstances), and his to control.

 _You can do whatever you want to her…And she would let you._

That thought, Oswald recognized, was one of his own, and it was the one that made him feel most primal. Primitive.

As though he'd made up his mind, Oswald shed what was left of his clothes, pulling them down to the floor. He stepped out of them, and crawled onto the bed. His presence shifted the weight on the bed, but Sylvia had no reaction to the abrupt displacement; in fact, she hardly seemed aware of anything at the moment.

If she was really sleeping, that is.

The moonlight shining through the blinds, peeking through, gave the room and his ambition an illicit air.

Oswald tugged at the comforter; once the foot corners had been pulled from underneath the mattress, he then burrowed under them, smiling and quietly chuckling to himself, a mischievous shiver running down his spine, tingling it pleasurably.

First, he touched her bare legs. They were smooth, soft. Then to her thighs with feather-light strokes, and he stifled a groan when he felt the texture of her panties: silk, and lace.

 _Clever_ , he thought.

He carefully steadied himself on his knees, the blanket following suit, and then falling behind him. Oswald inhaled sharply, thanking the gods—deep, royal purple panties.

Sylvia always did look good in that color. Maybe that was why it was her favorite.

"So beautiful," he whispered, gliding his hands up and over the silk. He hooked his thumbs underneath the band of her panties, sliding them slowly down her legs, then her ankles, and watching them fall to the floor with an almost reminiscent appeal.

Then he turned to look at her.

 _Still asleep._

Gently, he massaged her inner thighs, working his way up. Fingertips ghosting over pink flesh, her soft petals.

She stirred. And he ceased his movements, watching her carefully.

Sylvia moved a little, and a small moan escaped her mouth. Whether that was meant for him or it was the resolving power of her brain trying to work his movements into an ongoing dream, Oswald didn't really mind it.

He bowed his head to her sex, taking her clit into his mouth, licking and gingerly sucking. Watching her the entire time, waiting for another reaction. And he was rewarded for his patience; Sylvia moved, her legs attempting to close but Oswald separated them again, smirking when she let out another moan, although this one came out in the form of a pout.

He could feel her heartbeat against his lips, the bundle of nerves swelling under his manipulation. Oswald slid two fingers between the slit of her sex, and his cock grew harder when he felt wet silk.

He licked his lips, relishing the taste of her. _Fuck, so sweet_.

Her thighs were edgily quivering; Oswald glanced up to see her breasts, enclosed in the deep royal purple bra; they heaved up and down— _evidence_.

Yet, another reaction he was delighted to see.

He lowered his head to have another taste, dipping his tongue inside her slit, rubbing her clit with his thumb. Tongue-fucking her.

Then, quite suddenly, he felt a hand grab his hair by the roots, and he could feel some tearing.

That might have been his deepest concern if he hadn't heard the hammer of a gun being pulled back, and his eyes looking up to meet the end of a .40 Smith and Wesson.

Instinct picked up the pieces: He held up his hands cautiously, and his gaze flickered to Sylvia, who looked at him with the same dangerous glare he had seen her give Dolores Reese just seconds before shooting her down with a shotgun.

"Oh, _fuck_ , thank god, it's **you**." Sylvia managed breathlessly; immediately, she let him go, and the gun was thrown none too gently on the end table.

Oswald rubbed the back of his head from where she'd grabbed him and said indignantly, "Who _else_ would it have been?"

"I didn't know, that's why I was going to kill whoever the fuck it was!"

He prepared to retort, but she sat up, and kissed him. Taken in by her demand, the argument of how she just finished holding him at gunpoint was lost as Oswald returned it wholeheartedly, his tongue trespassing through her slightly parted lips to find her own.

Argument forgotten, he moved on top of her, smirking when her legs lifted; he felt the inside of her ankles digging gently under his thighs, coaxing him closer to her; his body weighted her down, pinning hers between his and the mattress.

"I could have really killed you, you know," Sylvia murmured against his lips.

"You wouldn't have pulled the trigger." Oswald told her knowingly; he kissed her neck, up to her ear.

His breath hitched when he felt the barrel of the aforementioned gun against his back, the cold metal like ice against his flushed skin.

"Would I have not?" She whispered dangerously.

"I stand corrected." He breathed into her ear. "You would have. If it hadn't been me."

He heard the gun drop to the floor; on the carpet, it made a small thud. Oswald grabbed her hands and forced them above her head, meeting her eyes.

"Don't ever pull a gun on me again, Sylvia."

She lifted her lips to his, pulling another kiss from him.

"What if it's just something that gets me off?" She asked innocently.

"Are you saying that because it might?"

"Well, you've used a knife on me in bed before, and we both know that certainly did the trick."

With his free hand, Oswald wrapped his fingers around her throat. He kissed her again, and moaned when he felt her hips grinding against his; her wet pussy humping against his hard cock.

The very feel of her could flip a switch in him…

"I can taste myself on your tongue." Sylvia murmured in between kisses.

His cockhead nudged up and down the slit of her sex; he smirked when he pulled a whimper from her.

"Please…"

"Tell me what you want." Oswald told her calmly. "What do you want me to do to you?"

"Fuck me."

"Easy enough."

She tried to get free from her restraint; her wrists moved, but Oswald tightened his grip on her. He licked her upper lip, nipping her there.

He drawled into her ear, "I know how you like it…" She whimpered when his hand on her throat tightened.

" _Baby_ …"

"You want to be controlled, dominated."

"—Yeah—"

"So, we will do it _my_ way."

She started to protest; his hand moved from her throat to her mouth, muffling. His cockhead which had been teasing her now nudged through her entrance, and was slowly engulfed by her wet, silky warm walls. Her avid protests became amplified moans.

Such a strong warrior, with the skill of a hitman and the strength of a weight trainer and for all her passions and resilience, she had one weakness.

 _Him._

He spared her no leniency, granting her little reprieve. Once he felt her climax, her sex becoming an earthquake of orgasmic tremors and heat, he pounded through them. Sweat glistened over her forehead and between her breasts, the look of sheen under the moonlight.

He let her hands go—but only for a second—as she tried to push him off. He restrained her, one hand anchoring each of hers down onto the mattress.

"I can't take anymore!" Sylvia squeaked.

"You could fight me off if you really wanted to," Oswald panted.

She was so sensitive, not yet numbed, and feeling every tingle, every small electric shock. Sylvia let out a desperate cry when he penetrated deep enough, hitting her g-spot and forcing her into another orgasm; her back arched, and her hips lifted to meet his every thrust.

"Oh my god…." Sylvia grunted through gritted teeth. "Fuck! Oh, _fuck_!"

'Fuck' was right! Oswald was getting close; climbing the mountain to get to the peak, he could see it, he could feel it. He was close to coming.

He shoved his mouth on hers, kissing her. She let out another helpless whine.

"Do you want me to stop?" He questioned, although he kept the same unforgiving pace.

"No…"

He couldn't help the snicker that came out next: "You can't ever say 'no' to me, can you, Pet."

Oswald nipped her ear, relishing in the eager gasp that he pulled from her.

"How can I," She said breathlessly in between passionate kisses. She tilted her head to the side, responding smartly, "I just like your dick too much…"

 _Vulgar_.

"Is that _all_ you want?" He challenged.

"Perhaps I just need a stern talking to—"

"Or maybe," Oswald said huskily, "you just need a good _fucking_."

He reached down between them, and began vigorously rubbing her clit, and she was propelled into another excruciating climax. Sylvia nearly screamed; he muffled her cries with his palm. Whether he could admit it or not, hearing her need him (and his dick) to satisfy her sent an unprecedented tingling jolt down his spine and was just what he needed to push him over the edge.

Sylvia smirked when he pulled out of her, watching him stroke his cock. With shaky legs, Sylvia sat up quickly and enclosed him inside her mouth, sucking. He groaned, his body shaking when he felt her hand slap his away so she could drive.

She looked up at him; he met her gaze, and her soft and desperate moans that vibrated around his cock did the trick; he came inside her mouth, and she swallowed.

Spent, Oswald lied on his back, panting, eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath. Sylvia glanced at him, smiling, breathless.

For a moment they were quiet.

"Just so you're aware," Sylvia said quietly, "I wasn't being completely honest."

"About?" Oswald asked, glancing at her.

"I can't say 'no' because of that dick of yours, but it's more than just that."

"I know."

"You know me in a way no one else does."

"True."

"In a way no one else could ever understand."

Oswald took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers and said assuredly, "Inside and out."

Sylvia murmured, smiling at him, "That's why it's hard for me to say 'no'."

"Or maybe, it is because you have never wanted to?"

"Or I just choose not to."

"Yes," He said sheepishly. "That _does_ sound more like you."

Sylvia kissed him gently on the lips, steadily getting closer to him. He returned it. Passionately. Tenderly.

"Love you, Daddy Penguin." She cooed, licking his cheek.

"As I love you."


	26. A Dinner Invitation

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Dinner Invitation

Author's Note: Thank you, Silverice523, for your kind and thoughtful words. This chapter is dedicated to you. Thank you for giving me inspiration to continue writing 😊

* * *

Sylvia sat down with Oswald and Ed for breakfast.

The morning had started out as it always had: Ed was always the first one up, dressed, and moving about the manor; then it was Sylvia who came strolling into the dining room next, thanking Olga for her cup of coffee that always began her day with a silver lining; and an hour later, Oswald joined them, dressed in his best.

"We have a busy morning ahead of us, Mr. Mayor," Ed stated, scooting his emptied plate to the side so in its place sat two, very well-organized slim binders: one was titled 'Penguin'; the other, 'Mayor'—both of which had colored tabs, cover sheets for those pesky memorandums signed by the commissioner, and a smaller folder which contained the necessary utensils (pens, pencils, even white-out tape).

"When are the two of you _not_ busy," Sylvia said lightly, smirking when both gentlemen gazed up at her, momentarily taken back by her comment, only to smile in amusement when she grinned innocently.

"What is on the agenda today?" Oswald asked as Ed handed him the binders.

"At the top of the list, you will be attending a conference with the School Board of Education; the Head of Commercial Finance has asked for an appointment to discuss renovating the school library—tax deductible causes, quick meeting, easily done," Ed listed shortly, snapping his fingers once to indicate the quickness of said meeting. "After, you are scheduled to cut the ribbon to the new Gotham Museum which has been under construction for the past two weeks.

"Following that, you will be touring the Gotham Middle-High School for a meet-and-greet sanction: teachers, student teachers, and the principal will all want to pick your brain, so naturally, I have you scheduled for a meeting that will quickly nip that in the butt, which will lead to the meeting you'll have with the Commissioner later today…"

"He's seriously trying to negotiate another price?" Sylvia asked skeptically.

Ed grinned at her and confirmed: "Clearly, you've dealt with that man too many times."

Sylvia leaned to the side, grabbed the binder titled 'Penguin', eyes lingering over the one that was rightfully titled 'Mayor'.

As she did, Oswald took the opportunity to take a bite of his eggs and bacon, making a mental note to congratulate his housemaid on her improvement.

Sylvia opened the binder, following Ed's organizational mind and turned to the tab where the Commissioner's laminated documents made up the plethora of busy work. A sip of coffee and an exasperated sigh later, she looked up at Ed.

"What does the Commissioner want that he wasn't satisfied with before?" She asked indignantly.

"Ten percent."

"He _has_ ten percent. Of everything that his dirty cops receive from _him_ ," Sylvia told Ed, gesturing with her eyes to Oswald in reference to 'him'. "He's lucky enough to have that."

"I'm sorry; you misunderstood. He wants _another_ ten percent."

"So, he wants twenty?"

"That's correct." Ed returned coolly. "With Jervis Tetch wreaking havoc, the Commissioner believes he'll be hearing more tripe from his superiors, so he wants compensation for his troubles, as well as for whatever injuries his police officers may incur."

"You're paraphrasing what he said, I'm guessing?"

"He was rambling away on the phone. If I even attempted to articulate what he said exactly, we would be here all day."

"He has trouble getting his point across, doesn't he?"

Ed rolled his eyes deeply, saying to Oswald, "'Trouble'. She's benevolent in the mornings, isn't she?"

Oswald snickered.

Sylvia asked, "Why does he want compensation again?"

"Basically, he gets chewed out by his superiors in his chain of command, and he feels that he isn't getting paid enough for it."

"His 'superiors'?" Sylvia repeated; her eyebrows raised. "If Oswald wanted, he could fire him and put another person in his place—someone who isn't so fucking greedy…or senseless. 'Compensation for the injuries of his cops', my ass. He'll watch the GCPD crumble before he spends a penny on anyone else but himself."

Ed dipped the tea bag and swirling it by the tab of its string in his cup before he added reluctantly, "He says he received more compensation from Aubrey James."

Oswald scoffed but he was silent as he continued eating his breakfast. Sylvia's plate remained untouched.

" _Aubrey James_ …" Sylvia repeated the name with malice. "Visiting the Commissioner won't take forever. Assuming, of course, you want me to come with you. I've spoken to him a few times before; this chat won't take long."

"I'd love—" Ed began, but he stopped talking once Olga came over, holding a piece of paper.

Ed and Oswald exchanged curious expressions, turning their attention to Olga who handed the piece of rolled up parchment to Sylvia, who took it cautiously.

"What is it?" Oswald asked.

"A message." The housemaid answered dutifully. "From doctor."

"Leslie Thompkins?" asked Sylvia.

"Yes. Woman come to door, says that she wants to see you. You and Mr. Oswald were still sleeping. So, I take message."

"Thank you." Sylvia said graciously.

Olga nodded with a smile and then left the room without another word.

Ed leaned forward, interested, as Sylvia read over the message. She chuckled only to herself.

"What?" Oswald and Ed asked simultaneously.

"Lee wants to have dinner tonight."

"I'm guessing you would be more willing to do that than negotiate with the Commissioner on our behalf?" Oswald asked, smiling knowingly at her.

"What's the dinner about?" Ed asked suspiciously.

"It's Lee. Don't be paranoid."

"Well, considering the fact that Aubrey James is curiously standing by, offering no opposition towards our new mayor despite having lost his position after ten years of sitting in its chair," Ed said coolly, "I think this might be a ploy."

"For?"

"An ambush."

"And why exactly would a dolt like Aubrey James plan to ambush me?"

"You're the Mayor's wife. And you have, more than once, humiliated _his_."

"Well, as accurate as you are, I hope you remember that I'm also capable of handling myself."

"Which is why he might plan an ambush."

"It's at a _very_ public restaurant." Sylvia reminded, holding up the note, where an address was written out. "Lots of people, lots of attention. Not a lot of places to hide a swarm of ninja assassins. Frankly, I'd welcome the idea; it'd be a lot less awkward."

Ed said calmly, "How do you know it is Thompkins who has left you the message? And _not_ someone else?"

"The note. It's in her handwriting."

"Plagiarism is a thing of the present, Liv."

"Firstly, the likelihood of her being kidnapped and someone writing a message in her handwriting so Aubrey James could lure me to some public restaurant for an ambush because I embarrassed his wife is slim. Side note: _she_ tried humiliating _me_ first. It's not my fault she couldn't take it. Secondly, Lee is dating a Falcone," Sylvia said pointedly. "Anyone who tries to hurt her is in it for an execution. Falcone's a name you shouldn't stick your nose up at either, Mr. Riddles, so don't roll your eyes at me."

Oswald watched the pair of them go back and forth with their little debate.

"Why would Thompkins want to have dinner with you anyway?" Ed asked.

"Boy, you're really trying to understand this woman's ulterior motives, aren't you?"

"She's not even dating Gordon anymore."

"I'm aware of that."

"So why would she want to have dinner?"

"Because I'm a likable person, maybe? I've managed to stay friends with all of Jim's exes—one way or another—"

"—Except for Vale, you mean—"

"—Well, she doesn't count."

"Ah."

Sylvia continued as though she hadn't been interrupted, "Barbara and Lee—for their own intents and purposes—may not be able to tolerate Jim, but they still like _me_."

"And why is that?"

"I'm just that awesome, I guess." Sylvia drawled, flashing a smile at Oswald, who returned it amusedly when Ed let out an exasperated sigh.

"You have to see where I'm coming from, Liv."

"I do."

"Do you?"

Sylvia looked at him with a patient smile.

Ed said logically (more to himself than anyone else): "It just does not make any sense."

"Not to you, maybe. Lee might just want to thank me for helping her out with Tetch. I got Mario out of a locked bathroom, took a chain off his leg—Lee's a grateful person, she probably wants to extend a thank-you. Ergo: dinner at a restaurant."

Ed scratched his ear with a thought, saying, "Yes, I suppose _that_ makes sense."

"Frankly, I'm surprised you even suspect that Lee might be so easily subdued, and abducted. Someone like Aubrey James isn't capable of scaring her."

"Do you really think that?"

"Well, you've done plenty of abhorrent things, _including_ killing Kristen Kringle. Isn't that the reason Lee punched you?" Sylvia said sneakily, smirking when Ed scowled at her. "Yeah, _that's right._ She told me. So, thinking logically, if someone like _you_ , a convicted criminal, doesn't scare her, why would someone as pathetic and pitiful and _forgettable_ as Aubrey James be so intimidating?"

Ed looked at Oswald, defeated.

"Thought so." Sylvia cooed, smirking at the two of them. "Where the Commissioner is concerned, I wouldn't negotiate with him if I were the two of you. The man is a snail—he's always curling up in his shell the moment things get hard. A little salt and pepper, and he'll shrivel back into it. Easy."

"You'd rather intimidate than negotiate." Ed assumed. "That's what you're telling me—based on that snail metaphor."

"Talk gets pretty cheap when it comes to the GCPD. The Commissioner is no different. I've negotiated with him on three different occasions. So, if you'd like my advice, here it is: Threaten him with lowering his percentile, tell him he's a piece of work for trying to get his difference up by ten percent. If that loss doesn't strike a chord in him, tell him to eat it."

Sylvia drank the last of her coffee. She stood between Oswald and Ed, kissing the former on the cheek; the latter, on the head, earning her a smile from the both of them.

"If the Commissioner doesn't settle, Oswald will find someone else who's willing to play ball. Won't you, Sweetheart?"

Oswald laughed, "You know me too well."

Ed placed his chin in the middle of his palm and said sarcastically, "You're really going to this dinner, aren't you?"

"Well, I figure I might as well. It'll leave you two alone to do whatever it is you, fellas, do whenever I'm not here." Sylvia deliberated.

Oswald caught her hint and he smiled gratefully at her. That stated, Sylvia walked out of the dining room with both men watching her leave.

* * *

A public restaurant it was; a fancy one, it was not. Since the requirement to be dolled up hadn't been stated, Sylvia decided to go to the dinner with her usual fashion: jeans, a T-shirt, and running shoes. On her belt, she had a holstered Glock; in her back pocket, a switchblade.

No, Lee didn't seem to be the nefarious type, but Ed had a point though.

Aubrey James was _not_ acting like his usual self. When Oswald had won the election, Sylvia expected personal attacks to be aimed at either him, herself, or even Ed—maybe even a letter stating how much he detested that a criminal—the _kingpin_ of all people—had been elected by the people to rule Gotham rather than his lecherous self.

But not a single peep had come from that man. Nor from his wife who had been so bitter, even worse off than her own husband.

Nothing from either of them. It was as though they'd let the entire thing go. Or so they wanted the Cobblepots to believe. Ed was not easily fooled, and neither was Sylvia.

But for friendship sake, she hadn't brought her body guards. Instead, she came alone.

 _Armed_ …but alone.

As she entered the sanctity of the beautiful restaurant, the casual diner that it was, Sylvia felt a resounding calm wash over her. While Oswald's revered expensive tastes were pleasant to behold, and she had let it spoil her to no end, there was something heavenly about being in here.

The restaurant served the casual meals: hamburgers, spaghetti, fried fish, even chicken fingers. It was familiar territory, the type of environment in which she'd been raised; familiar, and familial to boot.

It wasn't too long before Sylvia caught sight of Lee; she sat in the open, right in the center. Three other chairs circled the table; she occupied one and Sylvia took the second one.

"I wasn't expecting something like this," Sylvia greeted, smirking.

"Well, I thought you'd be more comfortable with it." Lee explained, gesturing to the casual atmosphere in general.

"What makes you think I would be _uncomfortable_? Why, because you're not dating Jim anymore?"

Lee chuckled, "No. Something else."

"What else?"

Lee pointed over Sylvia's shoulder; in return, she followed her gaze and saw Mario walking towards the table; his father was right behind him…Carmine Falcone. Mario sat down as he came over, kissing Lee on the forehead once he did; Sylvia stood when Falcone approached her.

"Long time, no see, Mrs. Cobblepot." Falcone said smoothly, holding out his hand.

Cautiously, Sylvia shook it.

He asked politely, "Or do you prefer to be called 'Lark'?"

"It's all the same to me, sir."

Falcone smiled genuinely, saying, "It's a pleasure running into you again. Thankfully, under better pretenses. Please, have a seat."

Sylvia slowly sat down, glancing at Lee: "Why is _he_ here?"

"Calm down." Lee coaxed. "Trust me. It's okay."

"I see why you would be a little nervous," Falcone said smoothly, clasping his hands on the table as he watched her. "After everything you've been through with Salvatore Maroni, my former underling, Fish, and even myself, I can appreciate the position you are in."

"You can, can you?" Sylvia returned with forced ease.

"All is fine between us." He reassured. "I have nothing against you. If anything, it is I who should be humbled by sitting in _your_ presence."

Sylvia felt the fear leave her body; in its place came confusion and bewilderment.

"Pardon?"

Falcone chuckled, "You've created a name for yourself. The first time I saw you, you were working in Fish's bar. You were a catty, feisty woman back then, and you are a catty, feisty woman now. The only difference is that I've realized I underestimated you and your husband. A huge mistake on my part. Had I known what amazing talents you harbored and the fierceness at which the two of you do business, I might have still stayed in the game."

Sylvia's eyes were wide, like dinner plates. She couldn't believe what she was hearing!

"But…Why…Sir, Oswald tried to kill you." Sylvia reminded.

"And you enabled him." Falcone returned with an appreciative smile. "You stood by his side even through the worst of it—even tried bargaining your life to spare his. You are caring, protective, warm, and intelligent. In fact, you remind me a great deal of my late wife." (He patted his son's shoulder, reminiscing.) "Mario and Sofia's mother. Such a precious, sweet, woman—stubborn, lewd. Drove me mad at times, but I knew if there ever was a situation where I needed her the most, I knew she'd be there by my side. And she was…until she couldn't be."

There was a pause in his soliloquy.

And Sylvia respected him (and the dead) enough to not further the conversation. Meanwhile, Lee and Mario exchanged soft, endearing smiles, as though they shared an inside joke that no one was privy to.

"For all her skills and talents," Falcone sighed, "She had one irrefutable flaw: she liked helping people: friends, family, strangers even. And she helped those who she believed needed it most. Made a lot of friends for me doing that, a lot of allies. Unfortunately, strangers take advantage, and one did, and that is what ultimately led to her ill-fated death several years back."

"Sir," Sylvia said uncertainly. "I hate to interrupt, but what…Why _exactly_ are you here? Why am _I_ here, actually?"

Falcone smiled and said sweetly, "You did not know much about Mario except that he was Lee's intended. Mr. Gordon and Lee are no longer together, and yet that didn't stop you from saving _both_ of them from Jervis Tetch. You saved my family, Lark. And for that, I am in your debt."

Sylvia quirked an eyebrow at him: "' _Debt_ '?"

Lee chuckled, "Mr. Falcone" (Falcone looked at her curiously) "Perhaps we should just tell her."

"Tell 'her' what?" Sylvia asked cautiously.

"Do you think it's the right time?" asked Mario playfully.

"Tell me _what_?"

"Assuming she'd even agree," Falcone chortled.

Sylvia said exasperatedly, " _Tell me_ _ **what**_!"

Lee leaned forward eagerly saying, "We appreciate all that you've done for us. Mario and I talked it over and we would be so appreciative if you provided the entertainment for our engagement party."

Sylvia stared at her: "You're kidding."

"No!" Lee exclaimed. "We're serious."

"I'm not sure…"

"I've seen your performances," Lee insisted. "The one you performed at the Children's Charity Gala—we never received so many donations! And you have such passion, such dedication to it! For god's sake, you set yourself on _fire_!"

Mario and Falcone exchanged shocked expressions.

"They called you 'Fire Dancer' for _weeks_." Lee reminded.

"Oh, yeah, I remember that." Sylvia mumbled, rubbing her face. "But Lee…This is your engagement party. Won't it be awkward for you? I'm Jim's sister, and you're marrying Mario and—no offense, Don Falcone, but you and I…We don't exactly have a great history together. It'll be so _awkward_."

"You've become highly recommended," Falcone said honestly. "You make people feel comfortable: whether it is the result of your musical preferences, social networking, entertainment, or charismatic personality—it is your lifeblood. If Fish knew that about you, she might have been more successful."

"Is this something I can say 'no' to?" Sylvia asked carefully.

"You can."

"But?"

"But what?"

"Nothing," Sylvia said, smiling nervously. "I just thought I heard a 'but' coming on. Like, 'you can say no, _but_ you might be killed the moment you walk out the door'. That type of 'but."

Falcone smiled genuinely at her, saying, "You have my word, Lark. I will not kill you if you decline my offer. However, I _did_ plan on paying for your services, as well as your stay down South."

"My 'stay'?"

"Of course. Planning the engagement party will take a week, at best. I'd only require that you be within an arm's reach for a day or two. Once the entertainment and the financial disputes have been completed, that is where your services will end." Falcone explained, smiling at his son and Lee, adding, "I'll be taking care of everything else."

"What disputes? You're Carmine Falcone. Who can argue with _you_?"

He gave a small snicker: "You'd be surprised. And _I_ hear you have a knack for negotiating."

"Well…"

He took out a checkbook, scribbled a number that was about six figures, and handed the check over to her. Sylvia glanced at it, but she handed it back.

"I don't want your money, Don Falcone." Sylvia said politely.

"You don't?" Falcone responded, surprised. He glanced idly at Mario and Lee, who both returned the shocked glance. Then he looked at Sylvia curiously: "If you do not want money as payment…then what is it that you _do_ want?"

Sylvia thought for a moment.

"I have to put something on the table, just to clear things up," She said plainly. "You mentioned that you were in my debt for saving Mario and Lee from Tetch. Really, I didn't save anyone from anything. I merely broke down a door, axed a chain, and got Mario to the hospital."

"Perhaps that's true," Lee offered, pulling Falcone and Sylvia's attention to her. "But you could have left Mario in the bathroom, if you wanted."

"That would've been rude." Sylvia chuckled. "So, I saved him, then. But Jim saved _you,_ Lee."

"And how did he do that, I wonder." Falcone mused. "Did he get rid of Tetch?"

"No."

"Did he tell Tetch to kill him instead of her?"

"I don't know. I was locked in a closet for the whole thing." Sylvia admitted, smiling embarrassingly at him. "I wasn't exactly in the right state of mind to do anything, let alone save myself. Lee helped me out of the closet…"

"You were there for us," Lee reminded. She and Mario held hands on the table's surface. "You endured so much but you helped us. And we appreciate it."

Sylvia smiled and said, "Well, when you put it like that…Okay, fine. I'll do this thing, but I'll be doing the entertainment planning _my_ way. You all have a say, but ultimately, I'm doing things _my_ way."

"Fair enough." Mario said, nodding. "Will you be a part of the entertainment? I hear you can sing."

"It's part of the reason she's named after a bird known for its melody." Lee reminded.

There was a small debate about that, even throughout dinner. After the meals had been finished, drinks had been consumed, the check came; Falcone paid for the meal itself. Shortly after, Lee and Mario had excused themselves for the night. That left Falcone and Sylvia alone at the table.

"Sit across from me." Falcone said suddenly.

Sylvia glanced at him, and saw that familiar business-like glint in his eye. She'd seen it once before when he had to talk with Fish Mooney alone, or when he had to settle a few scores with some indignant buckos who thought they were hot shit, trying to show off to some of Fish's lesser known entertainers.

Delicately, Sylvia stood and sat across from him. The other two chairs were forgotten; the waiter came by, picking up plates and such. Two drinks were then placed between Falcone and Sylvia.

"This is a Sea Breeze," Falcone told her, gesturing to the drink. "Vodka, cranberry, and grapefruit. A little tart for my taste at first, but they've grown on me since I moved down South."

"Is this a preamble to something more sinister?" Sylvia asked vigilantly.

"I'm making conversation. Does it bother you?"

"I'm just saying, it's not what I would've started out with."

"Really? What would you have said first?"

"I don't know, but anything other than that."

Falcone took a drink out of the straw, gesturing for her to do the same.

"It isn't poisoned. You see I'm drinking from mine." He explained.

"You could have instructed the waiter to poison _only_ mine."

"And by that logic, I would have already poisoned you during dinner."

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Point taken."

"I've asked you to help me plan my son's engagement party," Falcone said lightly. "I would not have done that if my entire plan was to come here and kill you. And, speaking honestly, dear, I have too much respect for you to kill you in such an underhanded way."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side curiously: "You respect me, huh? Is _that_ it?"

Falcone chuckled, "I can understand your skepticism. Well-warranted, by all means. However, my respect for you is nothing from which you should shy away. It is well-deserved. I was telling the truth when I said I was arrogant for underestimating you. For underestimating Penguin. Fish Mooney did the same thing, and the both of you are at the top of your game, sitting at the head of the table."

' _But not without its cost.'_ Sylvia thought, thinking of Csilla.

She flicked the straw in the sea breeze, calculating its merit.

"'Not without its cost'?"

She looked up at him, startled. She hadn't even realized she'd spoken the words aloud until _he_ had.

Back in the old days, Falcone was known to be a hard ass. He was chivalrous, an old-fashioned mobster with a flair for formalities, and a predilection for chickens. He was the father figure that no one wanted to disappoint; and he was the type of man who could kill anyone without so much as losing a wink of sleep.

So, when Sylvia saw the flicker of humanity in his eyes, one of empathy and understanding, she was startled to see it. It registered a part of her that had failed to see the obvious truth: regardless of Falcone's standing stature as a coldhearted, willfully raw businessman, he was someone's brother, someone's son, someone's husband…and a father.

Falcone took a small swig of his drink, then pushed the glass to the side as though his intention was to temporarily forget it and focus solely on his guest.

"Lee mentioned that you've endured a great deal. That even while you were suffering, you still cared for the people around you, your friends, your family, even your employees. I don't doubt that for a moment," Falcone reassured. "There's a lot to sacrifice in order to reach the top of the pyramid, a lot to lose."

"Don't think I don't know that?" Sylvia questioned, glaring at him. "I've lost _plenty_. But not from my enemies; they couldn't cause me the amount of pain that my alleged friends and family have brought me."

Falcone nodded, understanding. He gave a soft titter and uttered, "In all the years I was a Don, I've learned that it is never my enemies I expect to betray me. In fact, I can always trust my enemies to always want me dead, to always turn an ignorant eye should I ever get in trouble. That's why I've always kept my enemies closer, and my friends: two arm lengths away."

Sylvia looked at him incredulously.

"My wife," Falcone said softly. "I mentioned to you that she was a friendly woman. Charitable, generous—she'd give her last drop of blood if it meant saving someone else's life, even if it was a complete stranger. And that was how she died; she helped a stranger, who was not that eager to return the favor. As a result, she died in my arms—with a knife in her heart."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sylvia asked.

"I know what it is like to feel pain, to feel anger. I know what it's like to have all that anger aimed, not at the people who were responsible, but towards yourself for not having been wary enough to stop this horrible thing from happening. Self-loathing: it's gradual, but lethal."

"It's a powerless feeling."

"Exactly so. Everyone has felt it. At one point or another. That was mine: being unable to protect someone I cared about, someone I loved."

"I'm sorry that it happened to you."

"As am I." Falcone said, nodding.

Sylvia paused, hesitating. She said softly, "I lost my daughter. Csilla. I trusted someone who I thought was my friend and he killed her in the middle of the night with a pistol—it had a silencer on it; no one heard the gun shot."

Falcone frowned and said darkly, "An unspeakable crime to hurt a child."

"She wasn't even three." She murmured; she held her stomach, remembering when the baby was still in her womb. "I was naïve, and stupid, and foolish."

"You try to remember her fondly?" Falcone said, nodding slowly. "And you remind yourself to remember how much you love her?"

"Of course."

"But there's a bitterness in your heart," He said knowingly. "A pain you can't get rid of. And then, one day, you find yourself hating that person, wishing they almost never existed so you can be freed from your pain."

Sylvia looked at Falcone, unexpectedly.

Falcone held out his hand. She placed hers in his palm. He squeezed gently.

"I am terribly sorry." He said sincerely. "No parent should have to bury their child. I hope you made that bastard pay for what he's done."

"Oh, I made him suffer. Believe me."

"A mother's love is a powerful thing. A weapon, too."

"I find that any type of love can be a powerful thing."

"You're correct, of course."

Sylvia smiled when he kissed the back of her hand. The two of them drank their sea breezes, and Falcone cleared his throat, making Sylvia look up at him indicatively.

"I'd be happy to pay you," He told her smoothly. "Money isn't an object, as you may know. My offer is still on the table, unless you believe your services warrant a higher price."

"I was serious when I said I didn't want your money, Don Falcone."

"Then what is it that you _do_ want?"

"A favor." Sylvia responded softly.

"'A favor'?" Falcone repeated, smiling.

"Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"A favor is worth millions in gold." Sylvia returned assuredly. "Especially from a man like you."

"Well, I can't argue that." Falcone chuckled. "And what exactly is this favor?"

"I don't know yet."

"So, it will be one in the future."

"Yes, sir."

"Enigmatic, yet practical. Very well, then. I'll owe you a favor." Falcone said, standing to his feet. He held out his hand; Sylvia shook it. "When you call in this favor, I hope it's worth it. It's not often that I give people favors; I normally collect them."

"Understood."

"Speaking of which, I heard you and Victor took down Reese."

"The rumors are true."

"How did that go?"

"She had her house rigged to blow." Sylvia answered nonchalantly. "Lit up like the Fourth of July."

Falcone let out a snicker: "Reese was a hardy woman. She stood to lose more than she gained."

"Her life was no different, apparently."

"She viewed that as 'collateral damage'."

"Hm."

"Until then. Mrs. Cobblepot," Falcone said with a small smile. "It was a pleasure talking to you. I look forward to planning this engagement party; I will call on you later on this week; if it is all the same to you, I have a few more errands to run before the night is through. Have a good evening."

"To you as well."

He nodded towards her with a small respectful bow and he left the restaurant. Sylvia looked after him, smiling proudly.

She accrued a favor with Don Falcone. And _he_ claimed to respect _her_. Well, well, well, things were looking up, weren't they?


	27. Making Herself Scarce

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Making Herself Scarce

* * *

Nothing like a little detour to really spice up her evening, as if dinner with two-thirds of the Falcone family hadn't been enough.

Sylvia would have come home at eight o'clock instead of midnight, but Oswald had sent her a text (' _Dinner with Ed at 8'_ ) and she made sure to make her presence scarce, owing to the fact that it was better for Oswald to tell Ed about his affections without her in the room. Or so she figured.

During her three extra hours of 'me' time, she'd gone to the mall, browsed the sections there for a pair of clad combat boots, and even perused the _Sears_ aisle, peering at the dresses with a mixture of unease and reluctance.

Dress shopping for herself never held positive results. They were either too loose, too tight, or the material was oftentimes scratchy—unrefined. Occasionally, a soft little voice would rise out of the curtains of clothes ( _"Can I help you find something, Miss?"_ ), startling her every time with infallible precision.

"No, no," Sylvia would say politely to the staff, "I'm just looking."

Then five minutes later, the same employee would come up and repeat the question as though they'd never heard her answer. Perhaps they worked on commission, or maybe their boss required a five-question status, hole punched on a card to slide in a time-table Rolodex.

"Gotta find something," She whispered.

But what did _anyone_ wear to an engagement party fit for the future Leslie Falcone?

Dresses made of solid gold?

Just a diamond?

Dresses made of solid gold _and_ diamonds? While there were not many times Sylvia experienced a self-induced panic out of a small situation, this was definitely one of them. The social event, the reputation of Falcone alone—

Then her phone started ringing.

Sylvia recognized the tone; there was no need to even try glancing at the Caller ID. Pointedly, she smiled at the staff, who were seemingly watching her for any sign of distress, and she placed the phone to her ear.

"Is this Tetch?" She asked.

"No. It's me."

She let out a breath of relief when she heard Jim's annoyed voice on the other line. In the same tone, he criticized, "Why the hell would you assume it's Tetch?"

Sylvia placed the phone between her ear and shoulder as she pulled a dress off a rung and glanced at the back, noticing the lack of and seeing a long slit from the hem to where her ass would be hanging out; immediately, she placed it back on the hanger, her eyes flickering to a solid black cocktail dress hanging adjacent to it.

"Well," Sylvia sighed. "With the way things are going, I just expect someone else to kidnap you, take your phone and try calling me."

"And, currently, I'm hearing how you would sound if you were placed in that hypothetical situation?"

"I guess you are."

"You don't sound that worried."

"Well, honestly, you can take care of yourself. You always do."

"I guess that's fair."

Sylvia chuckled, "I'm joking…Kind of. If Tetch answered the phone, you know I would be worried."

"That's reassuring."

"Is it?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome. So, what's up?"

"Are you able to talk?"

"Obviously."

" _Alone_. Without eavesdroppers?"

"I'm not at home," Sylvia said ironically. "If that's what you're asking."

"It's almost eleven o'clock at night."

"I'm aware of the time."

"So, what are you doing if you're not at home?"

"Doing whatever I want."

"But where are you?"

"At the mall."

"They stay open that long?"

Sylvia glanced around the store, noticing that it would be open for a few more hours and she murmured, "Evidently."

"Why are you at the mall?"

"Stalking other customers."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"I like watching my prey, Jim. Fiddling with them, playing with them. I like it, it's my hobby."

"I know. That's how you flirt with people."

"How would _you_ know that?" Sylvia returned, smirking when she heard Jim's playful tone seep out from its usual cynicism.

"Well, not to toot my own horn, but I'd say I have had the misfortune of watching you interact with a various number of men and women," Jim mused. "Your knack for making people uncomfortable seems to make you charming…for whatever reason."

"First off, James. When _I_ flirt, I make people hot and bothered. It's when _you_ flirt that people get uncomfortable."

"Oh, right. I must've gotten us mixed up."

"Clearly," Sylvia giggled.

He laughed on the other side.

After a moment when the giggles wore off, Sylvia walked down the next aisle, a black and white dress caught her eye. Black princess-like flow, ebony bust.

"So why are you calling me?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"I needed a reason?"

"You normally have one."

He didn't say much, so she said smoothly, "Are you drinking?"

"Kind of."

"Tipsy?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Drunk?"

"Getting there, Vee. Getting there."

"Whiskey?"

"Close."

"Bourbon?"

"Bulls-eye."

"Funny, I didn't know they named an alcohol after a bull." Sylvia said wittingly.

"You're funny."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You're not _that_ funny."

"You're right," Sylvia uttered lightly. "That's something I didn't know. So, you're not quite drunk-dialing me. Got something on your mind?"

"I talked to Vale at the hospital."

"I thought you two were done?"

"We are."

"But?"

"I had to go see her, make sure she was alright."

"Right," Sylvia muttered. "Because you and her were a thing and that 'thing' died off the moment you told Tetch to kill Lee so he would shoot Vale; she caught onto that ruse, I'm guessing—but you figured that already, didn't you."

"Yeah."

"And that's why you're drinking?"

"Sure."

"Because Vale dumped you?"

"Sure."

"And you had to find out for sure that you two were done, so that's why you went to the hospital to 'check on her'?"

"Yeah."

"And she rejected you because she knows what I know, what Lee knows probably, and what you, _especially_ , know."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That you still love Lee."

" **Yes**."

Sylvia detected his anger, bubbling to the surface. Not at her; at himself. What was it that Falcone had told her this evening? _'Self-loathing: it's gradual, but lethal'._ Ole Jimbo was definitely full of self-loathing; mix in some alcohol and battered muddy thoughts, and the result was Jim calling to talk about his emotions, which he apparently could only do when he had enough schnapps or, at this point, bourbon.

"So…So how long have you been at this mall?" Jim asked, hoping to switch the conversation to something else.

She cut him some slack.

"Couple of hours." She answered gently.

"And you're shopping for…?"

"You really wanna know the answer to that?"

"Do I?"

" _Do_ you?"

"I don't know," Jim said cautiously. "Shopping for lingerie?"

"If I said 'yes', where exactly would this conversation be heading?"

"I have no idea. I'm hoping you'll say 'no' because you're not, but if you are, you'll do me a favor and lie to me." Jim answered truthfully.

"I'm not buying lingerie."

"Is that the truth?"

"Does it matter?"

"No."

"Well, there it is." Sylvia giggled. Seriously, she added, "I'm trying to find a dress."

"A dress?"

"Uh-huh."

"For a dinner?"

"For an event." Sylvia answered. "And, at the moment, I can't tell you, but it's going to be a real fancy-ass, rich-type kind of event. I don't normally go dress shopping for myself, so, naturally…"

"You can't wear jeans to it?"

"To what?"

"To this 'fancy-ass' thing."

"I could, but I'd stand out."

"You typically do."

"More so than usual."

"Having trouble shopping, Vee?"

"I need an adult."

Jim laughed, and once his laugh sobered, he said, "Why didn't you take Oswald with you to look for a dress?"

Sylvia stared at the phone, pulling it from her ear to simply measure the amazing evolution of Jim Gordon's mind. She put the phone back to her ear and said curiously, "And why would I take Oswald with me to go dress shopping?"

"He seems like the type to know a thing or two about formal wear." Jim's voice took on a tone of politeness, at least it seemed like it to her. "Half-dandy, half-snake…part-charisma, part-toxicity…"

"Square up or shut up, Jim."

"Fine. I'm just saying. You take him with you when you go dress shopping, right?"

"Well, he normally buys them for me and they show up on my bed." Sylvia said honestly.

"He knows your size?"

"Well, yeah. He knows my shoe size, waist measurements…"

"—Vee—"

"—Knows my bust measurements too, but I figured you kinda knew that—"

"—Nodding off!" Jim shouted, hoping that she'd get the hint: He was uncomfortable now.

Sylvia grinned mischievously and said, "That's how you know you've found someone special. When you know if their clothes will fit them or not. Anyway, to prove a point, _no_ , I don't really go dress shopping for myself. The last time I did any kind of dress shopping, it was for my wedding."

"Who did you take with you then?"

"Victor."

"Fries?" Jim asked, confused.

"Zsasz."

There was a rustling in the background on Jim's side, as though he was slowly sitting up and shifting gears. He said, amazed: " _Zsasz_ knows dresses?"

"Zsasz knows _weddings_. And he was a goddamn bridezilla."

Jim paused and Sylvia could practically hear him smile: "I can see that."

"I'm sure you could."

There was a moment where Sylvia could hear more stuff in the background: a car crash, a static noise as the television was switched from one action channel to another.

"So, where's good, old, sweet hubby right now?" Jim asked; his words slightly slurred.

"Home."

"Sleeping?"

"Maybe in one form or another." Sylvia said, thinking of Ed and Oswald together in the mansion, _alone_. "But he's been out once to the boutique already."

"For?"

"To find a new suit."

"Shocker."

"He's attending a Founder's Dinner later on in the week. Powerful people go there—Mayors, politicians, Head Priests—to congratulate each other on becoming _masters_ of the universe."

"And you're not going?"

"I wasn't invited."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," Sylvia said, shrugging her shoulder. "Oswald said they don't like plus-ones."

"That's a darn shame."

"Stop drinking bourbon, Jimmy. It makes you _really_ playful."

"Is it making you uncomfortable?"

"No, but you're giving me plenty of ammo to use against you should we ever get into another argument," Sylvia said with a mischievous grin.

"I think that's called 'blackmail'."

"Oh, I know."

Jim said curiously, "So what is this 'event' you're going to where you need to get dressed up, and all pretty?"

"It's a social one."

"Big one?"

"It'll be in the newspapers."

"That big, huh?"

"Yes. _That_ big."

"What's _your_ role in it? Did you kill the son, or something?"

"Joking about murder," Sylvia said with a small 'tsk'. "Now, I know you're drunk. For your information, I'm going to be the entertainment."

"Color me shocked."

"If you're shocked, I'm flattered."

"I was being sarcastic."

"So was I."

"Getting you all nervous for some event, making you go dress shopping…Must be some big event, for some big people to make you go through all of this." Jim said groggily. "Hope they paid you enough."

"Let's just say my fees are covered for a whole year."

"That's a pretty good payment."

"Yes, it is."

"When are you going home?" asked Jim.

"In a couple more hours. Why? You wanna talk more?"

"Nah. I think—Oh, shit!"

" _Jim_?"

"I'm okay…I just spilled my drink."

"Put a towel on it; you're hammered. Get it taken care of, and go to bed. Before you drunk-dial someone else who isn't willing to play along with your stupid stupor."

"Good idea. Fuck…Where's the towel? Where…" Jim's voice trailed off as he put his phone down and when he was back on it, he added, "Anyway…Thanks for the talk, Vee."

"No problem. Now go to bed."

"Sure, sure, sure…I…I love you."

"Love you too." Sylvia returned sweetly. She hung up, and then glanced at the dress, admiring its ebony bust and flowing princess bride white skirt.

A staff member appeared by her side with a large smile.

"Need any assistance, Miss?"

"Sure, why not." Sylvia said, grinning. "Could you ring this up for me?"

* * *

It was midnight.

Sylvia had finished taking a shower, crawling into bed. Oswald was already asleep, dressed down in a white pair of pajamas, sleeping on his side, facing away from her.

She idly wriggled under the blankets, burrowing underneath them. As she did, she wrapped an arm around Oswald's stomach, gently pulling him to her; his back softly pressed against her chest. He made the softest sound, stirring enough so he was half-asleep, trying to look over his shoulder.

"It's me, Sweetheart."

"Mm…" Oswald responded, and he closed his eyes, falling back to sleep.

"That's my good little spoon." Sylvia whispered, nuzzling his neck.

She heard him sigh contentedly (' _Hmmm'_ ) as he smiled to himself; she closed her eyes, exhausted from the task of shopping, making a mental note to take someone with her for the next time she had to undergo the same laborious task in the future.


	28. Jealousy

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jealousy

A/N: Thank you, SilverIce523, for your review XD It made my day! I've been on a high writing streak so this is a second chapter in one weekend. Enjoy! :)

Update: 2 MAY 2019: So I had to clarify a few things in this chapter as I re-read it. Yes, a threesome WILL happen in the future. Yes, Sylvia does love Ed, but mostly as a friend or (at this point) a friend with benefits. I rewrote this chapter to make it a little easier to read, and it flows a little better in my opinion. I'll be posting another chapter this weekend, so keep a look out. :) Love you all!

* * *

" _Sylvia_ …"

She registered someone calling her name, but wasn't quite sure if it was in her dreams or elsewhere unreachable to her at the moment.

It wasn't until Oswald had come into the bedroom, grabbed her by the shoulders and started shaking her awake before Sylvia realized that something was _definitely_ amiss.

"SYLVIA! Wake up!"

"What? What!" She snapped, pushing him off her. She looked at him incredulously: "Why the hell are you shaking me—what—"

"Was Ed here when you came home last night!" Oswald demanded.

Sylvia stared at him; her vision was still blurry, trying to focus as the bright sun intruded through the open curtains, blinding her retinas. She put her hands over her eyes, and muttered, "I don't know…"

"WAS HE?"

Sylvia glared at him, snapping, "I don't _know_ , Oswald! It was midnight, and it was dark! Why the fuck does it matter?"

Oswald stood, stepping away from the bed. After a minute or two had passed where Sylvia had managed to gain her situational awareness, taking her moment to fully awake, she glanced at and looked him over, noticing his haggard disposition.

He looked as though he'd just gotten ready for the day, with a few exceptions to the rule: his dress coat was _somewhere_ but not on him; he wore a black vest over the white collared shirt, the collar of which was still undone and open; and a deep expression of concern tightened the lines of his face.

Sylvia sat up and asked curiously, "Why do you look so worried? What happened?"

"I don't think Ed ever came home."

"He never came home?"

" _That's what I just said_!"

"I meant it as a question," Sylvia returned patiently. She slung her legs over the side of the bed, getting to her feet. Meanwhile, Oswald watched her tensely.

"You were sleeping so well last night though," Sylvia offered, confused. "I assumed you and him—"

" _No_!"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, surprised by his sudden denial, which was only retracted a few seconds later as Oswald admitted shyly, "He never came home so I couldn't tell him…I waited for him…"

"Then why were you asleep?"

"I figured he was at the office…"

"I'm guessing he wasn't?"

" _Obviously_." Oswald retorted; his tone was dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't worry because _you_ came home late; I assumed he might have done the same. I woke up, and he is no where to be found!"

"Maybe he's still at the office—"

"—He wouldn't have slept there all night—"

"—Or possibly decided to take a nightcap at _his_ apartment—"

"—Why the hell would he do that when he's staying _here_? That's _idiotic_."

Sylvia glared at him saying, "Are you calling me an 'idiot'?"

"Of course not. I was merely stating the fact that your thought was idiotic, not that you are." Oswald stated, gesturing to her dismissively.

Sylvia sent him a look, to which Oswald dodged as he moved towards the window, looking out to see if he could spot Ed's car. Aside from Sylvia's vehicle, the driveway appeared deserted.

"Call the office." Sylvia offered coolly.

"He won't be there."

"Why not?"

"I've already tried."

"When?"

" _When what_!"

"When did you call the office?" Sylvia questioned firmly.

"Two hours ago."

"Maybe he'd stepped out to get a cup of coffee—Ed's always the first to rise, first to work. Maybe he wanted to get a head start." She suggested.

Oswald bit the inside of his cheek fretfully but he seemed to gather that her idea was a fairly good one. Taking her suggestion for what it was worth, Oswald took her by the shoulders, pecked her on the cheek, and swiftly left the room.

"Good morning to you too!" Sylvia shouted after him.

Oswald glanced over his shoulder at her ironically, leaving her to dress for the day while he went downstairs to call Ed at City Hall.

* * *

As Sylvia came down the stairs dressed for the day in jeans and a black long-sleeve, V-neck blouse, she stopped in the kitchen to pour herself a glass of tea. Oswald nearly stumbled in after hearing her familiar cat-quiet footsteps, and stopped just in front of the dining table. Sylvia turned to look at him expectantly.

"Anything?" She asked.

" _No_." Oswald said worriedly. "No answer."

"Did you call his apartment?"

"Twice."

"And—"

"He's missing, Sylvia. _Missing_!" Oswald snapped, gesticulating behind him to indicate Ed's unnatural absence. "He doesn't come home; he doesn't call; he isn't anywhere to be found—What do you call that?"

"I'd say that's the perfect definition of 'missing'." Sylvia returned coolly. "Seems a good reason as any to start panicking."

"Why aren't _you_ panicking, then?" Oswald questioned indignantly, pointing at her.

"Like you once told me before: If I allow myself to panic as well, we'll have complete anarchy. For the time being, one of us must stay clear-headed. From what I've gathered since you woke me up, that's clearly not going to be you." Sylvia said smoothly as she turned to put the tea pitcher back in the refrigerator.

"Enough of this!" Oswald hissed.

She looked at him curiously, surprised by his tone.

"I'm filing a missing person's report!" Oswald stated with finality.

"They'll tell you to wait twenty-four hours before you do that," She warned.

"I don't care—I'm doing it anyway."

"Suit yourself."

Oswald let out a discontented sigh, rolling his eyes, but he was still pressed as he strode into the next room to make the call to the GCPD. Sylvia idly added sugar to her glass of tea, certain that if Oswald hadn't been worried for the two of them; she'd have compensated it.

Ed hadn't come home?

And he was no where to be found?

Sylvia bit her lip, trying to ignore the fast pace of her beating heart, the way it pounded within her chest cavity as though it was trying like hell to race and escape. For a friend, she might feel a little concerned, even worried. For Ed…Oswald's physical disposition was an accurate depiction of her own concern. And while she needed to stay clear-headed for Oswald's sake, the same could not be said for her jangled nerves.

 _File that missing report, Ozzie. If you don't,_ I _will._

She came into the living room. As she did, she and Oswald met eyes and she sat in the living room, listening to him argue with an officer (likely, Alvarez) about whether or not Ed's absence constituted a valid reason to file a missing person's report so early on in its development.

"He wasn't at work; he isn't at his apartment, and…Do you honestly think I wouldn't have?" Oswald argued exasperatedly. "No! _You_ are not listening to me. I _know_ one must wait the full twenty-four hours before filing a missing person's report, but, sir, I am the _Mayor_ —"

Just as he made a valid point in supporting his case, Ed waltzed right through the door and said Oswald's name and the phone call was terminated upon his entry. Oswald hung up on Alvarez; Sylvia was met with instant relief, and a small smile creased her lips when Oswald lunged forward, hugging Ed tightly.

"When you didn't come, we assumed the worst!" Oswald said, stepping back only a few steps so Ed could breathe normally again.

Ed glanced at Oswald curiously, then, as though registering his words, he looked up at Sylvia and repeated the word, "'We'?"

Sylvia smiled guiltily.

"I'm so sorry I didn't make it to the dinner," Ed said apologetically.

"Oh, shh, I'm just glad you're okay." Oswald said, smiling at him.

"Oh, I'm more than 'okay'." Ed reassured, grinning widely.

"Is that a fact?" Sylvia mused.

"Yes, it's a fact." He returned. " _In_ fact, I met someone."

"'Met someone'?" Sylvia and Oswald voiced simultaneously.

"Yes!" Ed said happily. "I think I'm in love!"

There was a beat, to which Oswald appeared more than taken aback. Sylvia recognized his expression (as subtle as it could be) of shock and other horror, and she stepped forward. Oswald glanced at her uncertainly, but he gladly took that time to let her intervene.

"You met someone last night?" Sylvia asked, drawing Ed's attention to her.

"Yes!"

"Where?"

"At a wine store."

Sylvia chuckled, "Odd place for a first-meeting."

"She's beautiful," Ed said, nodding, ignoring her odd comment.

"What does she look like?"

"Blonde…And she has the most beautiful eyes."

Sylvia guessed, "Pretty smile?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"That's what all guys say about women. The hair, the eyes, the smile…" Sylvia said nonchalantly, holding her glass of tea and the fingers of her other hand circled the rim. "What is her name?"

"Isabella."

"'Isabella'?" Sylvia repeated. "That's a pretty name."

"It is. I can't stop saying it. Isabella…Isabella…"

Sylvia cleared her throat, and Ed looked at her curiously. He mindfully rubbed the back of his neck, looking at her with an expression of modesty.

"Is this awkward for you?" He asked.

"Why would it be awkward for _me_?"

"Well…"

Sylvia smiled politely, saying, "You have feelings for me, and you think by having a new love interest, that it might be awkward between us?"

Ed glanced at Oswald, then at Sylvia, saying pointedly, "It's been a known fact for a while…"

"Well, I know. And Ozzie knows…Does this Isabella girl know?"

"No. Not yet."

"You plan on telling her?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Why would I?"

"You said 'not yet'. 'Yet' implies that you might."

"I can't imagine I would. What would I tell her?"

"That you and I have history…"

"That leaves a lot to the imagination."

"Doesn't it, though." Sylvia agreed, smiling at him.

Oswald noticed the certain gleam in her eye—that mischievous intent. Ed seemed to notice too.

"It most certainly does." Ed offered passively.

"Mm-hmm!"

There was another awkward beat during which Ed and Sylvia looked at each other, and, for the first time in a long time, Sylvia appeared uncertain as to what to do with herself. The smallest quirk of a knowing smile on Ed's face made it known that he knew what Sylvia had been trying to hide this entire time—and for once, it was _she_ who seemed to be made uncomfortable by this knowledge. And yet, it had only come to the surface when a love interest seemingly prevailed to take his heart.

Ed said politely, "I best get ready for the day."

"I suppose so. Don't take too long," Sylvia returned, smiling sweetly. "I'm making breakfast."

"Sounds great! But…"

"But what?"

Ed chuckled, "Oh, sorry, I thought maybe that you were going to say something else."

"No!" Sylvia returned all too quickly.

"I thought you were."

"Nope…"

Ed glanced at the two of them, then he politely excused himself, wanting per choice to get ready for the day. As he left the room, Sylvia frowned; Oswald mirrored her in expression.

"He's in love with her." Oswald stated, disappointed.

"Sounds like it." Sylvia uttered prior to drinking from her glass. She licked her lips, adding, "Kind of random, don't you think?"

"'Random'?"

"Like 'coincidental'."

Oswald grumbled, "That's _one_ way to put it. Politely, at that."

Sylvia cradled his shoulder closest to her in her palm, rubbing it with the pad of her thumb. The reassuring gesture made Oswald look at her.

"Your jealousy is showing." She uttered.

"And what about _you_?" He quickly retorted.

"What _about_ me?"

Oswald turned towards her completely. She rivaled his cool gaze with a curious one of her own.

"You are just as jealous of this woman as I am." He proclaimed.

"Perhaps," Sylvia admitted to Oswald's surprise. "But not in the same way you are. This woman just literally pops up out of no where in the middle of the night…He falls in love with her quicker than a rat falls in love with Swiss cheese—this whole thing stinks to high Heaven."

Oswald stared at her, now more intrigued by her speculation than opposed.

Sylvia added, "Ed holds a special place in my heart. As do you. When some broad decides to steal either one away from me, I find that deeply disturbing. And a little on the nose."

"So, you _do_ still love him."

"I don't know anymore."

"How can you _not_ know?"

"There are so many answers to that question."

"Am I going to have to worry about _you_ now?" Oswald asked spitefully.

"I'm not taking Ed away from you, honey. I'd like to see the day when you and Ed come to realize that what you two have is a great, if not impeccable, friendship that _could_ be more once Ed is given the chance to realize it. Can't very well do that with this woman trotting about."

"So, what _are_ you feeling right now, exactly?"

"Protective, maybe? Ed _is_ one of my closest friends. He's sweet, smart, cute. If you permitted yourself to think _outside_ of your jealous intent, you'd probably see what I probably know that _you_ don't know."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"You might just enjoy it if you, me, and Ed were an item. Even if it was only for a night. Honestly, I'll admit, I've been curious about a few things."

"You're looking for an adventure night, aren't you, Pet?"

"Don't kink shame me. We can start another argument about this if you like, but I _know_ I am not the only one who believes this."

"I can't wait to hear the supporting argument for this one." Oswald said sarcastically.

Unabashed, Sylvia returned, "Well, here it is. Personally, I think you might have a voyeur kink that you're not aware of. No shame in that, really. I've had my small suspicions."

"What suspicions?" Oswald responded defensively.

"You watch me when I shower; and I _know_ you've watched me play with myself." She returned slyly. Oswald's cheeks blushed a soft pink hue, so she added, "And you thought I had no idea, did you?"

He let slip a small guilty smile: "You make it hard to resist temptation."

"Well, I can give you another example as to why you may have this kink."

"You can, can you?"

"You'd like to see Ed kiss me. Maybe _more_. More than you'd probably be able to admit."

"How can you prove that?"

"Well imagine this. Try picturing Ed and me locked in a passionate embrace while you're standing in the room, watching us—"

"—That is _not_ —"

"And telling us what to do to each other." Sylvia finished.

The image, whether or not he wanted it to, seeped into Oswald's imagination and the simple visual made him stammer over his words, and he looked at her as though he had been given the answer to one of life's most ancient questions. His face had grown hot to the touch and red as a tomato.

"You are a different type of insufferable." Oswald told her. "But you know that already, _don't_ you, Pigeon?"

Sylvia smirked, and lightly brushed the pads of her forefinger and middle just beneath his chin and whispered, "You're awfully catty this morning."

Oswald brushed her hand away from him, saying, "So, fine. You have a point. But that doesn't take away from this predicament. And I didn't come _this_ close to telling Ed I love him just so some incompetent sap could steal him away from me."

Sylvia rolled her tongue over her bottom lip in thought; she drank the last of her tea, placing it on the end table where the landline sat.

"I'll see what I can find out."

"When can you?"

"Not tonight." Sylvia returned. "I have to pack."

Oswald's attention was diverted immediately from Ed's sudden infatuation with a randomized floozy to her, looking at her with such an opposition that Sylvia smiled apologetically.

"I met with Falcone last night; he was there with Mario, at the same dinner Lee had invited me to. It was a segue to a job; he wants me to help him plan Lee's engagement party. And I am his source of entertainment." Sylvia explained, gesticulating behind her to the front door indicating Falcone, and to herself as the self-proclaimed entertainment.

"How come Dr. Thompkins didn't mention this to you in her message?"

"She knew I might've objected if I'd been told Falcone would be there."

"And he wants _you_ to help **him** plan this engagement?"

"Yep."

"He could find _no one_ else?" Oswald questioned.

"No one good enough for his son, at least. Or it seems, anyway."

"I assume you're getting paid for this?"

"Paid well." Sylvia returned. "But not with money."

Oswald blinked: "So…How exactly are you getting compensated?"

"Well, since you asked: I've acquired a favor from him."

"What favor?"

"An ambiguous one."

Oswald chuckled, humored obviously: "And he agreed to this?"

"Emphatically, actually. The only caveat is that I have to go down South for a few days. He has a hotel there, paid for me, and I'll be staying there only long enough to plan the entertainment, decorations—"

"All of which takes three days?" Oswald interrupted unhappily.

"He wants this thing thought out thoroughly."

"And he can only do this with _you_ there, at his beach house. Down South. Away from Gotham."

"You mean 'away from you'." Sylvia corrected, smiling knowingly.

The familiar expression of being vexed briefly crossed his facial features. Sylvia could tell he was having reservations about the idea—not that she hadn't expected this type of push back.

Staying at a hotel paid for by Don Carmine Falcone which was near his beach house down South and about fifty miles outside of Gotham's jurisdiction (and thereby her brother or Oswald's) was one decision that didn't sit well with Oswald, nor would it anyone else who had such a history with the former Don.

"It'll only be for a few days," Sylvia assured. "I'll be arranging the song order—"

"Wait. You're _singing_ at this party?" Oswald asked skeptically.

"Well, yeah."

"Did he ask you to do this?"

"His son did."

"Why would he?"

"Why would he _what_?"

"Why would he ask you to sing at his engagement party," Oswald inquired, annoyed. "The man has every single band and performer at his beck-and-call for a position such as this, but he asks _you_."

"So?"

"I want to know why."

"First things first," Sylvia said patiently. "I'm getting the feeling like I'm being interrogated, and I don't care for it. Secondly, Mario and Lee are grateful for my intervention with Tetch. They wanted to show their appreciation—"

"Wasn't that the point of the dinner last night?"

"It was, but this is Falcone's way of extending the gratitude. All three of them are giving me the opportunity to branch out my business—at least, further than the borders of Gotham."

Oswald shook his head, seemingly more suspicious about this plan than he had been about Isabella's sudden pop-up on the map.

"Nothing is going to happen to me." Sylvia uttered lightly. "Falcone was amiable, personable, and he was caring enough to put me up at a hotel. We spoke; we have an _understanding_. You needn't worry about him."

"Oh, trust me," Oswald said, smiling sarcastically. "It's not _him_ that I'm worried about."

"What does that mean?"

"You're going down South…"

"Yes, that's right."

"And you'll likely be in Falcone's mansion at some point?" Oswald asked knowingly.

"It would be hard to orchestrate an entire engagement party inside a little bitty hotel room," Sylvia reminded. "So, yes. Odds are, I will be in his territory—at one point or another."

"Fifty miles away from Gotham, I might add."

"You mean 'from you'."

" _Of course,_ that's what I meant!"

Sylvia stared at him, crossing her arms: "So is your paranoia about me staying near Falcone because he may have an alleged vendetta against you for taking over, or are you worried because I'll be so far away from _you_? I **can** protect myself, you know. I'm pretty damn capable of that."

Oswald looked at her, opened his mouth to speak his concern, but then he closed it as though it would be better for his self-preservation to not speak his mind, after all. Anyone else might have missed it, but the subtle three-second response was a beacon.

"What is it?" Sylvia pressed.

"Nothing."

"Don't clam up on me now. What do you want to say? Might as well tell me—"

Oswald snapped suddenly, "It's your ex that concerns me! Alright? There…I said it."

Sylvia blinked, momentarily taken aback.

She had nearly forgotten that Alex Beals, her first boyfriend, the one that had left her, was working for Carmine Falcone under a different alias, self-given title, 'Rooster'. It'd slipped her mind…but Alex had been first on Oswald's the moment she'd mentioned Falcone's home down South.

"You're worried about _Alex_?" Sylvia asked. "He's nothing to me."

Oswald lifted a finger and said pointedly, "For _now_ , he is."

She let out a sarcastic laugh: "And you think by me staying down there for three days will somehow rekindle some dull flame and we'll just be having the time of our lives—"

" _Yes_ , that is what I think!"

Sylvia sighed coolly, closing her eyes for a breath of patience as she rubbed her temples with the heels of her hands. Slowly, she lowered them.

"We've had this conversation before…" She began.

"About Ed. Yes, we have." Oswald reminded. "And you finally confessed to feeling more for him than you previously declared."

"Well, honestly, I love Ed as a friend. Seeing a random woman pop up in his life just as you were about to tell him...Pisses me off, frankly. And, by the way, you love Ed too, so I can't understand why you're mad about that."

"I'm not mad."

"Okay, fine. Then a little jealous."

Oswald said pointedly, "I can learn to accept it."

"Because the image I described to you about the three of us is beyond—"

"— _You won that argument, Sylvia. We don't have to discuss it aloud_." Oswald said quickly, shushing her immediately in spite of her incorrigible smile. He said more seriously, "What I _don't_ accept is you going down South for more than twenty-four hours to spend time with—"

"I'm not spending time with anyone. I'll be _working_."

"What is the difference?"

"When I 'spend time with someone', I normally enjoy it with every fiber of my being. I like spending time with _you_ because you're the only person who understands me—inside and out, and there's a tri-factor involved that, to this day, keeps me emotionally, physically, and sexually attracted to you no matter how jealous you get or how insufferable _you_ become." Sylvia said irately, gesturing towards him. "When I spend time with Ed…Well, it's basically the same thing, except you just understand me more because we've been through Hell and back, and I love you more than life itself."

Oswald looked at her, uncertain as to how he could respond but, apparently, she wasn't finished.

"When I 'spend time with someone'," Sylvia stated factually. "It's because I like them or love them, as I love you and Edward Nygma. It's not because I have to be here, or because it's an obligation.

"When I _work_ , however, I do it because the economy sucks ass, and it's a nice way to pass the time. So no—I will not be 'spending time' with Alex _or_ the Falcones for that matter because it is _business_. If I had to spend time with anyone, even if it was making the decision between you and Ed, I would still pick you: any day of the week. You're the love of my life, and I would choose no one over you. Ever.

"So, your jealousy, while understandable, is unnecessarily founded."

Oswald was at a loss for words.

Sylvia smiled knowingly at him, knowing she had proven her point. Still, her tone softened to a caress as she did the same with her hand along his jaw.

"I love Ed, darling, of course I do. I love _you_ more." She added. "I do _not_ love Alex. In fact, I'm not looking forward to this _because_ of him, actually. So…Do we understand each other now?"

Oswald quietly cleared his throat and said just as softly, "I think there is no reason why we should have this argument again. If that is what you are asking."

"We won't have _this_ argument again, but we'll probably argue at some other given point in the near future." She reassured.

"Why would we if we understand one another?"

"Because you're a jealous man and I'm a jealous woman," Sylvia answered plainly. "And if this floozy Ed is in love with turns out to be a permanent addition to our lives, an argument about what we'll be doing to her will be easily on the horizon. But I think it's too early to say; who knows, maybe it was a one-night stand and this _Isabella_ " (Oswald smirked at the sarcasm laced in Sylvia's voice in saying the other woman's name) "is Ed's 'Alex'. We'll see."

She kissed his cheek; Oswald beamed as she turned to leave. He took her hand, pulling her back to him, bringing her into a passionate, but tender, kiss.

"It's a shame you won't be coming with me to the Founder's Dinner tonight." He uttered against her soft lips.

"Mm…And why is that?"

"I would be proud to show you off to any of them," Oswald told her.

"And why is _that_?"

"You're a weapon any powerful person would treasure and behold."

"There aren't many 'powerful' people in Gotham, baby." Sylvia returned smoothly. She licked his bottom lip, adding, "None that _I'd_ consider worthy of such a weapon, anyway."

With that said, she flashed a feline's smile and a wink his way and then walked out of the room and into the kitchen to make breakfast for the three of them.


	29. Blinded

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Blinded

* * *

Sylvia had assisted Olga with the dishes so the housemaid could busy herself with her other chores; in the meantime, just as breakfast was finishing up, Oswald had disappeared upstairs to finish his grooming regimen while Ed, who seemed more pacified to stay downstairs with her, gathered the empty platters and drinking ware and placed them on the counter beside the sink.

He looked spiffier today than usual, despite the fact that _his_ grooming routine had little to no change. His hair was slicked back; tie neatly done with exact precision and symmetry…Ed appeared to be in higher spirits than normal, something Sylvia recognized as temporary when he expressed his ulterior motive as to staying behind with her in the kitchen.

"Oswald tells me you're going down South for a couple of days," Ed noted coolly, handing her the three plates on which they'd finished eating, neatly stacked.

She sent him a small smile before she thanked him, placing them in front of her to wash.

"Well, Oswald's right. I am."

"How long will you be there exactly?"

"Three days."

"So more than a couple." Ed reminded protectively.

Sylvia snickered as he leaned against the counter, watching her.

"Well, yes. I guess that _is_ more than a couple." She agreed.

Ed sighed deeply, his eyes flickering over her hands which were busily scrubbing the pots and pans with the rougher part of a dish-washing sponge. Then his gaze briefly lifted to her face, at which point, Sylvia noticed.

"You're staring, Ed."

"I'm trying to understand your reasoning behind this, actually."

"But you're still staring."

"From what I gathered between our interactions this morning; I would have thought that you'd want me to stare at you." Ed offered sheepishly, lifting his hands and clasping them on the same countertop, which he still leaned against with remarkable golden boy charm. "All those _subtle_ cues."

She felt her face burn, but ignoring it was a little more than difficult.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I doubt that." Ed said with a small smug smile.

"I really don't know what you're talking about."

"Should I tell you what I think, then?"

"Free country, and all that." Sylvia returned coolly, smiling nervously.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"Sure, Ed. Go on. Speak your mind, break loose the dam of knowledge; let the smug river flow." Sylvia joked, but the heat of her face was slowly making its way down her neck.

The goddamn _burning_. Could he tell?

She swiftly brought the cleaned dishes over to the rack where the utensils were currently drying; using this as a main distraction from the knowing smile that was undoubtedly tugging at Ed's mouth.

"All these months—years, actually—you've been hiding this." Ed said, gesturing towards her.

Sylvia looked at him, saying, "I've not been hiding anything."

"Really."

" _Really_."

"Did you know that when you try to lie," Ed said smoothly, "your bottom lip ever so lightly twitches? It's a subtle reaction, actually."

"If it's so subtle, how is that you've noticed? Have you been staring at my mouth?"

"I've been attracted to you for a while now." Ed reminded. "I wouldn't imagine this would have come as a surprise to you."

"It's no surprise to _me_."

"Is it not?"

"No. It's not."

"Well, since you've yet to be surprised…Perhaps I can impart to you something I know that someone of your emotional intelligence, one who breathes, and understands all that is the psychology and sociology of a human's mind, may not fully comprehend seeing as you are perceptive of everyone, excluding yourself." Ed said smartly. "It may very well be a surprising factoid for _you_."

His air of joking had slightly faltered; a part of him that seemed put off by Sylvia's denial of her attraction to him had broken through the surface.

Despite the fact that there were still dishes to be washed, Sylvia turned towards the sink, turned the water off, and looked at him. There wasn't anything to distract her now.

"Your sarcasm is deafening." Sylvia told him coolly.

Ed chuckled, "I've never seen you evade a truth before. Normally, you run straight towards it." He made a swift gesture to articulate the speed at which she quickly gave out truths like candy.

"I'm not evading _anything_."

"Would you like me to tell you what I know?"

"That would take hours." Sylvia insinuated with a slight nod.

Finished with her avoidance, and mindfully smiling at her breezy compliment, Ed stepped forward and said pointedly, "You" (he gesticulated in her direction) "are still attracted to me" (He did the same to himself) "and you, Liv…You are jealous of Isabella."

Sylvia let out a discernible laugh, saying, "I'm jealous of a woman I've never met?"

"I'd say you are." Ed offered, grinning. "Why would you want to know what she looks like?"

"Maybe it's because I'd rather you see you with an attractive man or woman than with a cow?"

Ed said defensively, "She doesn't look like a cow."

"Well, I know _that_. You described her to me pretty well. She sounds beautiful."

"So, you admit it."

"I'm not admitting to anything."

"You're denying it, then."

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "I'm certainly not denying anything either."

"Then you _are_ admitting it."

"Is that what's important to you?" Sylvia asked indignantly, crossing her arms. "Me admitting that I like you? I thought we had discussed this before."

"We have, but during our past conversations, I could have sworn it was only one-sided." Ed reminded smugly.

"I _have_ admitted it in the past."

"You've said you have wanted me in your life but only as a friend."

"Right."

"Because you were married."

"Still am, actually."

"I thought that settled the score pretty well," Ed stated logically. "You made your stance _very_ clear."

"So, I did."

"And yet, the _moment_ , I have someone enter my life, suddenly you're jealous."

Sylvia gave him a look, caught red-handed.

"I'm not following you around like a lost puppy," Ed told her smoothly. "And that has really thrown a monkey wrench into the machine, hasn't it?"

Sylvia stared at him incredulously, at first. Then, she rubbed her eyes tiredly. Ed watched her for any clue that he was right in his assumption.

"First things first." Sylvia said slowly. She looked up at him. "I _do_ like you. I _am_ attracted to you. And whether you may see it or not, I did _not_ expect you to devoid your life of any relationships or love affairs out of my own allegedly selfish ambitions."

"So, why the jealousy?"

"You can call it what you want. I find that I'm simply being overprotective. It's a trait of mine that Oswald has been more than happy to nurture and even readily accepts it, but clearly, you do not."

"Isabella isn't dangerous."

"How can you know that if you've only just met her?"

Ed frowned, crossing his arms defensively: "How can you suspect that she is if you _haven't_ met her?"

"You've only known her for a few hours, Ed."

"I feel like I've known her my entire life."

"If your life was as long as a fruit fly's, I might be able to take that under consideration but since you may live to be one-hundred, your reasoning is lost on me." Sylvia told him coolly, earning a narrowed eye glance from him.

"We are in love."

"Infatuation can be often mistaken for that, you know."

"I do know."

"And?"

"I doubt it's only infatuation."

"Where does she work?"

Ed blinked: "Excuse me?"

"Where does she work?" Sylvia repeated.

"Why do you want to know?"

"If she's everything you say she is, I'd like to meet her. Logically speaking, by meeting her, I would see what you see. Your implication that I'm overreacting or that I'm jealous because I've never met this woman before will be easily rectified if you tell me where she works. Logically speaking, it's a great solution."

"Logically speaking, yes it would be." Ed muttered, frowning as reason had somehow superseded his earlier speculation.

There was a pause in their interlude, during which Sylvia turned the faucet on. Irritated in general, Ed quickly turned it off.

"What is it, Ed?"

"You're usually straightforward, brutally honest, even."

"Yes, and…?"

Ed let out an exasperated sigh, and he quickly adjusted his glasses back to the bridge of his nose rather than the point as they'd slowly descended during their debate.

"You're not making any sense, Sylvia."

"What's confusing you?" She questioned, turning to him again. "The fact that I'm trying to protect you from a woman who just randomly pops up out of no where and is instantly compatible, or the fact that—"

"God, would you just admit that you're jealous?"

"I thought I already had."

"Did you?" Ed questioned.

"I already confessed." Sylvia reminded. "I said I like you; I said I'm attracted to you; and I even told you _why_ I don't care for Isabella. What else do you want to hear?"

Ed clearly had something in mind, but for all his irritation, he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"I've told you before." Sylvia uttered lightly. "If Oswald was fine with it, you and I could have something more physical than this _lovely_ banter going on between us. It would be up to him though, as you know."

Ed gritted his teeth; the lines of his jaw torqued in annoyance.

"For a woman who prides herself on emotional intelligence, you're certainly blinded by your own."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, surprised by his angry tone. But what he said slightly stung, so she stepped towards him. Ed was nearly a foot and two or three inches taller than her, but he could feel the radiation and energy coming off her small stature.

"That may be." Sylvia said quietly. "But I should remind _you_ , Ed. For a man who holds himself to such high standards of logic and practicality, when it comes to Isabella at least, you are certainly blind to _it_."

Ed frowned deeply. It was a hard burn towards him.

"When you go down South…" He began.

"Hm?"

"You know what. I'm going to help Oswald get ready for the Founder's Dinner."

When she didn't offer any feedback in return, Ed let out an exasperated sigh and left the room. Sylvia watched him leave, turning back to the sink to wash the dishes for a third time.


	30. Protect Her

Chapter Thirty: Protect Her

A/N: Thank you, SilverIce523, for you valuable insight :) I love reading your reviews! Here's another chapter, guys!

* * *

Jack and Joel, the Kabuki Twins, had been kidnapped from their humble apartment down on 21st of Maine Street by one of the few hitmen Oswald could trust to properly carry out his order—in the name of Sylvia's safety, of course.

That man was Victor Zsasz.

In the middle of the night, Victor and Gabriel had stolen the twins from their beds. Their mouths were slapped with a wad of duct tape; large brown bags were thrust over their heads; amidst the confusion, the bullets that fired into the night sky immediately silenced whatever frantic thoughts were being expressed through muffled anguish pleas.

From the darkness of their bag-like blindfolds, the twins blinked as their lack of vision turned into an unsightly one.

They sat in a cabin; a typical run-of-the-mill vacation log home where a family might go for a summer getaway. A peaceful, glass-like lake outside could have persuaded the boys that they were in no harm, but seeing Victor and the knife that he held so tightly in his hand—it offered little comfort.

Once the introduction to their foreseen agony had been made by Victor, who seemed all too happy to explain what tortures lied ahead of them, the twins became morose in their attempts to flee.

In the name of the Queen…In the name of the declarative love they held for their mistress, Sylvia… _Lark_ …They would have to answer to every inquiry Victor asked of them, and every torture to come if they answered incorrectly.

While the question 'How loyal are you to the Queen' had been answered with insurmountable eager responses, Victor simply continued to cut at their hands, which were bound to the arms of the chair by rope; or he allowed Gabe to get a few licks in since the man was bored right out of his mind working at Sylvia's club.

Jack and Joel remained tied, gagged…bound. Their eyes were red, blood shot from crying; and if their gags had been removed, no sound would likely leave their tongues as they'd screamed too loudly and too often to make another sound.

"How long are we going to keep doing this?" Gabe asked as he sat down in one of the wooden chairs provided; it was no bigger than the ones that the twins occupied, but he was a lot more comfortable seeing as he was without bindings.

"We'll do this for as long as it takes." Victor answered as he stared unblinkingly at the twins, both of whom peered up at him with desperate eyes.

"And how long does _that_ take?"

"Either until they've convinced me that they're _really_ working for Liv and no one else," Victor said monotonously, watching the twins carefully. "Or…you know…I get bored."

Gabe rubbed his forearm over his forehead, wiping the sweat away with his sleeve.

"It's hot in this cabin." He said lowly. "I'm going to turn the heat down."

Victor chuckled, "Don't think the boys can take it?"

"They've been able to take all we've given them. _I'm_ the one who can't take this damn heat. It's like a sauna in here."

Wordlessly, Victor shrugged and made a gesture for him to go ahead. Gabe minded the twins sympathetically; torture was not his forte, so to speak.

While he enjoyed a good rough housing, even making a few threats or several even, he didn't care for Victor's overzealous ambition to carry out one of Penguin's orders, which had been too simple for the hitman, evidently. They were to find out if the twins' allegiance to Sylvia was honest; the interrogation—as all things did when it concerned Victor—had become more violent, and one of the hardest interrogations to endure.

Gabe walked towards the fireplace, moved the wood around with the poker, and hoped that re-positioning the logs would allow the fire to lose its flame. It would offer some reprieve, at least.

"How about we keep this questionnaire going, huh, boys?" Victor asked lazily. He pulled up the chair that Gabe had previously been sitting in, turned it around so he sat down in it, reversed.

He crossed his arms so the knife was now resting on his own forearm; the handle held loosely.

Sensing the signal to come, Gabe walked over to the twins and pulled the tape off their mouths. They took long deep breaths between their lips, grateful for the small detachment, if it only meant that they were readily able to breathe through more than just their noses.

"What do you want?" Jack was the first to speak. He blinked quickly as a small bead of blood ran from his forehead, trickling over his eye, missing it, and lined the crevice of the dark sacs beneath it. "What…What do you want from us?"

Victor said nothing at first. Then he leaned forward and said pointedly, "Well, I think that's been made clear. I just want your honesty."

" _We are honest_!" Joel cried, his bottom lip quivering as he spoke. "We _are_. You're—You're just not listening to us."

"Oh, I'm listening."

"We told you! We're not turning against Lark. We like her—We're _loyal_ to her. And we've told her that! _Why doesn't she believe us_?"

Victor smirked, saying, "Lark isn't the one who authorized this get-together, boys."

The twins blinked, glancing at one another uncertainly.

Victor stood, turned the chair around so he sat directly in front of the twins and said smoothly, "Just so we're clear, Liv thinks you two have a lot of potential. She's really into helping people, including under dogs, and _you_ two are just the type of people she'd go out of her way to train, mentor, shape and mold into whatever it is she thinks you're capable of becoming."

"So why are you trying to kill us?" Jack questioned sternly. "Why make us—"

"Lark isn't the one calling the shots. At least, not when it comes to this, guys. It's Penguin."

Joel muttered, "But we helped him take down Reese."

"That's right."

"And we were there when Dagger and Chilly and…" Joel glared at Gabe, accusing him. "When _no one_ else was."

"Also, true," Victor sighed apathetically.

"So why torture _us_?"

"You're going to be around Liv a lot." The hitman said coolly. "You'll be with her everywhere she goes, training with her, learning, studying her methods. Frankly, I'm a little jealous. That's neither here nor there, honestly. The matter at hand is that you'll be around her all the time, so Penguin needs to know that you won't betray her. No matter what."

"So, you're torturing us?" Jack asked. "How do we make you stop?"

"Well, you can't." Victor told him flatly. "You can't make me stop. The only way I _will_ stop is when you've convinced me that under no circumstances will you ever, _ever_ turn against her. Whether that's for money, for better job opportunities, or even if it meant your freedom. That's why we are here, fellas. So, I will ask again."

He suddenly stabbed the knife through Jack's shoulder; the man screamed bloody murder. Beside him, Joel writhed in an attempt to free himself from his bonds in order to help his brother, or at least to console him; yet all he could do was curse at Victor, who looked on with zeal.

"You're a fucking maniac!" Jack spat. Drool ran down the corner of his mouth as he desperately glanced at his shoulder, wincing at the sight, then cringing at the pain a second later.

"Are you still loyal to the Queen?" Victor asked curiously.

"Yes…Yes…" Jack muttered. "Loyal…Yes…"

"She wouldn't be doing this to us, you know. She wouldn't want this!" Joel shouted, glaring at Victor murderously. "She wouldn't want this at all— _you know it_!"

Gabe stepped forward; this small gesture made Victor turn, glancing at the man curiously.

"When Liv finds out we're doing this…" Gabe began.

"Penguin will deal with her when that happens." Victor said carelessly.

"You don't think she'll be coming after us?"

"Oh! Oh, no, she'll definitely be coming for _me_ ," Victor reassured wholeheartedly with a sheepish grin. He side-glanced his classic work of the beaten up and stabbed twins, adding, "I can bet on it. I'm almost looking forward to it, actually."

Gabe muttered, "You know, she really wouldn't want this."

"Well, I hate to break the news to you, big boy, but I don't work for Sylvia. I work for Penguin."

"She'll be mad."

"Yep! No doubt about it."

"How do we know she'll go straight to Penguin about this instead of going after us?"

Victor shrugged: "Not my monkeys, not my circus."

Gabe glanced at the twins.

Red bled through Jack's ripped T-shirt, darkening his sleeve, and the blood slowly oozed down his arm, dripping onto the wooden panels of the log cabin's floorboards. Both brothers were bruised, beaten, bloodied up, and while Jack seemed pretty much finished for the night, Joel was glaring daggers at them.

"I think they've proven their gumption," Gabe offered.

"Are you sure of that?" Victor asked, unconvinced.

"Yeah…I mean, look at 'em."

"Do you think it would be good enough for Penguin?"

"It's good enough for _me_." Gabe said, curling his lip and wrinkling his nose. "They've gotten more of a beating than anyone who has ever tried going against Sylvia herself. Well, except for Tomas."

"Who?"

Gabe repeated the name.

Victor rolled his eyes: "I heard you the first time. Who is he?"

"He was Sylvia's first body guard." Gabe informed. "The guy worked for Frankie Carbone, like me."

"Maroni's guy?"

"One of 'em, yeah. He got assigned to her."

Victor chuckled, "I guess he couldn't take the heat?"

"She beat him up," Gabe said, nodding. "Hit him over and over with a frying pan when he wouldn't fight her like she told him to. Not like he didn't try—but when Liv gets mad, she's just mean as Penguin…meaner… _angrier_. Tomas ended up quitting after that and she let him."

Victor crossed his arms, disappointed.

Gabe added without looking at him, "The guy ended up developing a speech impediment after. He doesn't work in Gotham anymore, last I heard. 'Too angry', he says."

"The women?"

"The city," Gabe returned with a small smile. "So, you know…Anyway, that said, I think the boys have proven their metal. Penguin should be happy."

"Is he ever 'happy'?" Victor asked ironically.

Gabe shrugged and said jokingly, "Only when Sylvia is, I guess."

Victor considered this. Then he said to the twins: "Alright. I'm bored. Let's go get a milkshake."

He untied the twins, and he simply left the cabin. Gabe looked after him, glancing at Jack and Joel briefly before he left with the hitman.

* * *

Oswald stood under the door frame of their master bedroom. One hand stuffed in the pocket of his ebony custom-made slacks while the other remained relaxed against the frame itself; he watched Sylvia move about the room.

At the end of the bed was an opened suitcase, filled halfway with assorted clothes, mainly casual wear to include blue jeans, shorts, leggings, ripped T-shirts, and a few nice blouses. Sylvia hummed lowly, her vibrato pitching a soothing classical hymn, one of which Oswald recognized but hadn't bothered commenting on.

He wasn't particularly in the mood.

"I can feel your glare, sweetheart."

Oswald lifted his hard gaze from the suitcase to Sylvia, who peered out of the closet with a small sympathetic smile.

"Moping about and seething in silence." She uttered playfully, walking to the foot of the bed to add a summer dress to the suitcase before closing it with a small _click_. "If I hadn't known you were completely against the idea of me going down South, I'd know _now_."

Oswald said defensively, "I can't help it."

"Hmm."

He slowly approached her, uttering, "I still find it suspicious that Falcone could seek out _no one_ else to efficiently coordinate the entertainment portion of an engagement party."

"We're having this conversation again?"

"Evidently."

Sylvia let out a small sigh of reluctance, walking towards the bathroom, returning shortly with her toothbrush and paste, and her makeup bag. She added those to a small hand-bag, placing it beside the suitcase.

"Like any parent," she reasoned, "Falcone just wants to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"Then he should be coordinating it alone."

"Is that what you really think?"

Oswald sent her a sarcastic look, to which she accepted with mild amusement.

"I've never seen you so overprotective," Sylvia said with a sly smile. "You know, if you're so concerned for my personal welfare, you could come with me. I'd be more than happy if you did." (She sidled up to him, her arms wrapping around his neck and closing the distance between them.) "It could be like a small little vacation, yeah?"

Oswald smiled at her: "I'm needed here."

"No doubt about that. The city needs their Mayor, is that it?"

"I think the people would prefer it if I stayed. Multiple meetings to attend—"

"—Rumors to debunk." Sylvia teased.

"The vultures wouldn't mind if I suddenly left for the South." Oswald said, referring to the media.

"Forget the reporters. I'm sure Ed would prefer that you remain _here_ anyway."

"Ed's head is somewhere else at the moment." Oswald reminded unhappily, glaring at the bedroom door. He turned to Sylvia: "That brings us to yet another reason as to why I'd like you to stay in Gotham."

"I'll be gone for a few days, maybe even sooner." She reminded.

"Given the short time frame, I imagine Ed will be head over heels for Isabelle by then."

"Well, according to him, he's already in love with her. And it's ' _Isabella_ '."

Oswald frowned: "Do you really think the correct spelling or pronunciation of her name means anything to me?"

"No."

"Then why correct me at all?"

"Because seeing you get your feathers in a bunch is sometimes amusing to me." Sylvia admitted, grinning shamelessly when Oswald glared at her.

Sylvia added a pair of sneakers and flats to her handbag, and closed that as well. When she looked at Oswald again, she couldn't help but snicker.

He was pouting.

"If you want me to be safe while I'm at Falcone's," She offered, "I can always take the twins with me. I think they'd be more than happy to see something _other_ than the warehouses and slum city streets of the Narrows."

Oswald chuckled more to himself than anyone else: "I'm sure they'd be happy _anywhere_ else at the moment."

"What?"

He startled: "…What?"

"Yeah," Sylvia said, gesturing to him. " _What_?"

Oswald shrugged.

She stepped towards him suspiciously, "What did you mean by that?"

"Nothing."

Then, just as luck would have it, Victor suddenly walked through the bedroom door, saying happily, "Boss, the verdict is in! The Kabukis are golden!"

Sylvia stared at Victor, taking in his appearance. Blood speckles were on his cheek; a few dirt patches on his pants, and he held a bundle of rope in each hand, which he held up as he declared the twins' allegiance as being wholesome and forthright.

Oswald looked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes with forced patience when Sylvia lunged towards Victor, who quickly dodged her although she grabbed the rope out of his hands.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sylvia demanded.

"Well…" The hitman began.

Sylvia turned on Oswald: "What does he mean, the 'twins are golden'? What's the rope for—and why is he covered in blood…?"

Oswald and Victor grimaced when she'd put two-and-two together.

"Oh, _you did_ not _, Oswald_!" Sylvia snarled, throwing the rope down on the floor.

"I'm out!" Victor said quickly, and he strode out of the room and the mansion at a brisk walk, grabbing Gabriel by the arm as he did, so the two could be spared her rage.

Oswald took a step back as Sylvia's frown deepened.

"You've been _torturing_ them?" She questioned heatedly. " _Why_!"

"I had to be sure!" Oswald responded, holding up his hands cautiously. "We discussed this, remember?"

"Sure! When you said you wanted to make certain they weren't spying on us or going to betray me, I thought you meant an interrogation. Not _torturing_ them! Where are they!"

"—In a cabin—"

" **Where**?"

"—In the woods." Oswald answered promptly.

"Are they still there?"

"I'd assume they are since Victor was here."

"I can't believe you! I've been wondering where they were this entire time," Sylvia said hotly. "I thought I'd have to give the whole 'you had one job' speech all over again; I've been blaming them for their own stupidity and lack of due diligence—I was ready to fire them with a bullet to the head, but their absence is because of _you_!"

"—Sylvia—"

"—Are you fucking kidding me! Why would you pull this shit right before I'm about to leave?"

Oswald smiled weakly and admitted openly, "Honestly, I hadn't any intention of you finding out."

Sylvia's jaw dropped offensively. She picked the split bindings off the floor and furiously shook them, shouting, " _ **How could you think I wouldn't find out about**_ **this**?"

"I misspoke," Oswald said carefully. "I hadn't any intention of you finding out from _Victor_. I'd have told you—"

"Why the **fuck** have you been torturing my people—!"

"—I'm trying to **protect** you—"

"— _I don't need your protection_ —"

"I CAN SEE THAT!"

Sylvia's next retort was silenced as she stared at Oswald, in more shock than defense. He didn't scream at her often, but when he did, she was always disarmed. Yet, his tone and words hadn't affected her nearly as much as his expression had. One of painful realization.

As though he understood he might've passed a boundary, Oswald sighed in defeat, sitting on the bed. Sylvia watched him, perplexed.

He didn't meet her eyes; he simply stared at the ground or at his shoes. Sylvia bit her bottom lip uncertainly, then moved towards him, sitting beside him. At first, he was quiet; then she gently took one of his fists, interlacing her fingers with his own.

The small gesture softened him up.

"I can see that you don't need protection." Oswald admitted quietly, if not to her then only aloud to himself. "I've known that for a while now. You've made it _very_ clear…especially at Reese's house. You're capable…"

Sylvia smiled sadly, saying, "Jack and Joel couldn't take me down."

"Not physically. No."

Her eyebrows raised at that comment. Oswald knew she'd have a question to come, so he explained the matter to her.

"You are one of the strongest people I have ever known. You have the strength of five men—sometimes, ten; a physical acquisition that is impressive, if not terrifying. You move quicker than any police officer, and I've never doubted your ambition to honor your 'kill or be killed' code."

"Those are sweet words, Ozzie, but you're just trying to deafen the blow. Tell me what you—"

"You're physically capable of protecting yourself, but you lack the perception to see when you are being betrayed."

At first, she was disarmed, but she smiled gratefully at him.

"You can put people at ease within any given social situation—be it mobster gunman or politician—and, be it your will, you can literally befriend anyone you meet. It's your strength, but it's your weakness. I'll capitalize on that strength, but I strive to never see you succumb to it."

"And you'll do that by torturing my people?" Sylvia questioned ironically.

"What happened with the likes of Brittany, Delilah, and Demetri…I'm trying to prevent that from ever happening again." Oswald said, looking at her. "And if it means I have to resort to barbarism and medieval methods in order to protect you from people whose aim is to befriend then betray, I _will._ "

He expected her rage, her unyielding fury to come into play again. Or the disappointment in his aim to go against what she wanted or the spoken sadness which he'd received from his mother after his small admission to being less than noble. Yet, neither response came.

Instead, Sylvia smiled genuinely. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and kissed his cheek.

She said pointedly, "You're a man driven by your own emotions; just as Ed is a man driven by his compulsive need for order and logic. I think you're meant for each other—two opposites to attract."

Oswald laughed at her unpredictable response with a light one of his own: "Perhaps Ed and I _are_ at the opposite sides of the spectrum; given that to be true, perhaps that is why we both fell in love with you at one point or another."

"And why would that be, I wonder."

"On the spectrum of logic and emotion, you're somewhere in the middle."

Sylvia chuckled, "May be. That's me, huh? Balancing out the two of you?"

Oswald let out a small snicker when she poked him playfully in the ribs. After the tension had lifted, Oswald (although still reluctantly) helped her pack the rest of her belongings she was taking with her, carrying the handbag downstairs while Sylvia took the suitcase and, easily, walked down the stairs with it over her shoulders. They headed outside, meeting at her car.

"I'll have to be heading out soon." Sylvia said lightly, glancing at her watch.

"Did he already call you?"

"Falcone, you mean?"

"Who else would I be referring to?" Oswald asked sarcastically.

"Ooh, snippy." Sylvia teased, smirking when he sent her a sardonic side-glance.

She opened the car door as Oswald opened the trunk, putting her suitcase inside before closing it. As Sylvia threw the handbag onto the passenger seat, she straightened and let out a small gasp when Oswald appeared directly behind her; her back was pushed against the metal frame.

"Call me when you get to the hotel."

"That sounds like an order." Sylvia uttered quietly.

"It is."

"You're ordering me to call you when I get to the hotel?"

"Compared to the other tasks I've asked of you, that should be relatively simple."

Sylvia smirked at his condescension. However, his concern had not gone completely devoid. His hands rested on her shoulders; when Sylvia kissed him, they lowered to her hips, lightly holding her in place as he closed what little distance was between them.

The unknown caller melody rang again from the inside of Sylvia's jean pocket. Oswald reached behind her, pulled it out, and answered the call himself; Sylvia sent him a look that communicated a message of ' _be nice_ '.

"Good evening to you as well, Don Falcone," Oswald returned, smirking at her. "How's the beach resort?"

"Give me the phone." Sylvia chastised, reaching out to him.

He dodged her swipe, and said to Falcone coolly, "Not at all. Here she is." He handed her the phone.

Sylvia snatched it from him, then pushed him away playfully; Oswald grinned mischievously at her.

"Are you on your way, Lark?" Falcone asked.

"Yes, just finished packing. When I arrive down South, did you want to meet me there or…?"

"No. That will not be necessary." Falcone said smoothly.

Oswald returned to his spot in front of Sylvia, steadily closing the distance between them again. His impish grin had not yet left his face, and Sylvia had to keep her hand in front of her to keep him at a reasonable distance.

"What time did you want to meet, sir?" Sylvia asked politely.

"Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock. Is that respectable?"

"More than."

While she spoke to Falcone, Sylvia held the phone in her right hand; during her conversation, Oswald had slowly broken past the barrier of the other hand, reaching up to caress her left ear. He whispered into it; what he said made the heat rise to her neck and cheeks.

"The room you'll be staying at is a hotel called the 'El Paraíso'." Falcone stated professionally. "Five-star hotel, bed and breakfast."

"I'd have been fine with a motel, to be honest." Sylvia managed.

Oswald kissed her neck, his lips pecking the skin just beneath her earlobe and along the base of her jawbone.

"It's a mile from my home, give or take." Falcone said smoothly.

"What's the address?"

"Do you have a pen or pencil handy?"

"Why, is it long?"

"As a matter of fact, it is."

Oswald rested his hands along her hips again, but where his loving intentions had been there before, now there was more of a squeeze to his fingers. He'd managed to close the distance between them; his chest pressed against hers, and he could feel the heat radiating off her.

"Just say it," Sylvia uttered distractedly. "I have a good memory."

Falcone chuckled, "Unfortunately, I don't. Please give me a moment; I'll have to find it."

Oswald slid a hand to the front of her jeans. When he unbuttoned and unzipped them, Sylvia grabbed him by his tie and uttered in a weak but vehement whisper, " _Don't you dare_ " but Oswald took it as a preamble to go ahead and do it.

Sylvia lifted the phone and away from Oswald's direction: "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"Hush."

His order was followed with marked resistance on her part, and almost dulled as he pushed his mouth against her. Despite her earlier protest, she quickly returned it just as heatedly. Her soft moan echoed in his ear as Oswald dipped his hand inside the front of her jeans; he smiled smugly when he slid his fingers inside her panties, satisfied when they were met with her silky wetness.

Falcone returned to the phone, and said the address. Sylvia made some type of acknowledgement to it, but she wasn't sure if it had been any language known to mankind; the feeling of Oswald's fingers slowly circling her clit and his lips leaving trails of kisses down her neck was dissolving her concentration.

"I've alerted the hotel to your arrival," Falcone said lightly. "If they give you any problems during the check-in process, you can give me a call at this phone number. I doubt there will be any issues, but things do happen on occasion."

"On occasion, yeah," Sylvia murmured; she bit her lip as Oswald intentionally let out a small moan against the shell of her ear. "Where…um…Where do you want to meet to discuss the engagement party?"

"We'll meet in my home."

" _Your_ home?"

"Is that a problem?"

Oswald nibbled on her earlobe; Sylvia exhaled shakily as she felt his fingers slowly moving in and out of her pussy, soaking her panties. She barely held the phone in her hand while the other was clutching Oswald's shoulder; her fingernails, digging.

"N-no, sir. Not a problem. At all." Sylvia managed.

"That's good to hear. I can understand your hesitation; however, rest assured, there will be no need to worry. I will introduce you to my staff, and, if the rest of my family is home, you will meet them as well. Considering you've already met my son, I think you should meet my daughter as well."

"That's a great idea, yeah…" Sylvia uttered.

"Until then, Lark. As before, it was a pleasure talking to you. Give my best to the Mayor."

"Oh, I will do that." Sylvia reassured, grinning.

"Good bye, Lark."

"Bye, sir."

The moment he hung up, Sylvia threw the phone into the driver's seat behind her, wrapped her arms around Oswald's neck, and kissed him so hard that it nearly hurt.

"What the fuck, baby!" She intended for it to come out angry, but instead, all Oswald could hear was her longing and desire.

"Don't get mad at _me_ ; you're the one who enjoyed it too much." He returned knowingly. "And, from what I can tell, you still _are_."

Sylvia involuntarily (and loudly) moaned when he rubbed her clit hard. She lost her sanctimonious streak almost immediately; Oswald smirked when she lifted and linked a leg over his hip.

"Fuck, I need it. I need _you_."

Sylvia grinned eagerly when she heard the buttons of his pants being undone, and she was equally satisfied to feel his hard-on rubbing against her. He'd enjoyed teasing her just as much as she had.

"You don't care to fuck me outdoors, _do you_?" Sylvia challenged, smirking when he glanced around himself as though only now realizing they were standing outside of the Van Dahl mansion, in clear view of it and his staff.

"In terms of fucking, Pet, I don't care where I am as long as I am inside _you_."

"Well me, or Edward Nygma. Guess, for now, you'll have to settle for me."

"I never settle for anything _or_ anyone."

With that said, he thrusted inside her, following his desire and obeying every electrical, lustful impulse. And within minutes, she succumbed to him; and he followed not too long after. She lowered her leg, rubbing the foot of her sandal over the back of his pant leg affectionately.

Breathlessly, Oswald smiled at her. A loving gaze meeting hers.

"That was sweet of you to say," She uttered quietly.

"What?"

"You never settle."

Oswald smiled honestly, saying, "What I said was true. If I settled for anything, I'd not have been successful in obtaining my position as Mayor, and I would not have been worthy enough in marrying you."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, saying, "That's ridiculous. You were always worthy of me."

"Perhaps in _your_ eyes." Oswald admitted modestly. "Even now, I'm not so sure how we ended up together."

An unpredictable, but awkward, pause solicited itself between them. It was a little awkward for Oswald; however, Sylvia smiled in spite of the interesting comment.

"You may be unsure, but I'm not. Back then, you were shy." Sylvia reminded. She straightened his collar, flattened her hand against his chest to do the same with his tie. "You were reserved, quiet. However, Fate has a certain way of making things happen."

"Does it?"

"Well, I'd say it does. If it wasn't for me making passes at you all the time and that shot of Jim Bean, would you have ever asked me out?"

Oswald looked down at the car's tire, a small smile of embarrassment passing over his features before he said softly, "I suppose I might have eventually."

Sylvia shrugged: " _Eventually_. Do you think you might have asked me out when you were Maroni's righthand man?"

"Probably not."

"Falcone's?"

"Again…Probably not."

"What about now, as Mayor?"

Oswald asked indignantly, "What's your point, Pigeon?"

Sylvia grinned: "You may not be so sure as to how we ended up together. I know, for a fact, that it was Fate that you and I would. You were meant to have someone who would have your back no matter what, someone who you could depend on. That's why It put someone in your path who was extroverted, cynical, and—as you've mentioned before—'insufferable', so that It could be damn sure you _did_ have someone."

"I suppose it was our destiny that we should meet." Oswald accepted with a smile.

"Who knew Fate would be generous, though."

Oswald lifted an eyebrow: " 'Generous'?"

"It gave you—not just one—but two people to love." Sylvia said lovingly. "I think that's more than what most people can say."

"Ed doesn't love me back, Pigeon."

"You don't know that." She reminded.

"Hm. I suppose you're right."

"Well, I must be if you're agreeing with me." Sylvia chuckled.

Oswald laughed quietly as she leaned forward; she kissed him on the nose, to which he laughed again, but out of playful embarrassment.

"I have to go." She uttered gently. "I'll call you when I get to the hotel. Assuming I can find it."

"Didn't Falcone give you an address?"

"He did, but I wasn't paying attention."

"That's a shame."

"I know. I blame you."

"Well, now I feel just awful," Oswald teased.

"As you should!"

He opened the car door for her; she sat in the driver's seat, rolling down the window. She turned on the engine; the car roared to life. Just as she was about to pull out, Oswald reached through the window, holding the steering wheel.

"What?" She asked.

Oswald paused and said apologetically, "What happened with Jack and Joel…"

"Don't worry about it. Just…" Sylvia said softly. "Just give them a week off, at least? It's the least they deserve."

"I'll do that."

"And maybe a pay raise."

"Aren't _you_ paying them?" asked Oswald pointedly.

"Fair point. _I'll_ give them a raise. I _really_ have to go, though."

Oswald let go of the wheel. She gestured to him and Oswald did as she'd silently requested; he kissed her one last time.

"Have fun at the Founder's Dinner tonight. I love you, Ozzie."

"As I love you."

He watched the car drive out onto the road; her hand extended out of the window, waving at him. He waved back. And then she was gone.


	31. The Check-In Problem

Chapter Thirty-One: The Check-In Problem

Thank you, SilverIce, I always appreciate your reviews! XD

* * *

After missing her exit three times, asking directions to the hotel, and getting lost two times while searching for the road, Sylvia finally arrived at the four-story, allegedly five-star hotel, El Paraíso.

She got out of the car, carrying her suitcase in one hand; hand bag, in the other. As she walked up to the hotel, well-dressed men and women dressed similarly in class, offered her small smiles and nodded their head respectfully to her. Doubtful that they knew why she was here, who had booked her room, or who she was, Sylvia gathered that this was just the hotel's mannerisms.

As she entered the lobby, her assumptions reigned true.

A very high ceiling met her eyes as they lifted to see the golden chandeliers above; mirrors framed with diamond accents flickered below the bright but not harsh lights. The carpeted floor had teal and aquamarine diamond-shaped patterns; even the handles on the oak doors glistened.

"Holy shit." Sylvia muttered. Now, she was _really_ out of her league.

She located one of the maître D's, a man who wore slim pants; he wore a dark navy-blue cumber bun which matched his royal blue vest. As a Maître D, he was a manager of the hotel staff—and if what Falcone had said was true, the hotel staff had been expecting her arrival.

Sylvia approached the lobby's check-in counter, run by a short woman, petite. She peered up at her with a friendly smile.

"Checking in?" She asked.

Sylvia nodded.

"Name?"

"Well, my name is Sylvia. But the reservation should be under 'Falcone'."

At the mention of the name, the woman's eyes widened and her otherwise friendly mannerisms somewhat stuttered into a respectful but fearful façade. Although, seeing the familiar reaction, Sylvia doubted she was pretending.

"Falcone…" The receptionist repeated as she typed on her computer, searching. "Um…Could… _Would_ you give me just a moment?"

"Sure." Sylvia said politely.

She stood to her feet warily, gesturing to the side where the Maître D' was currently standing and said quickly, "I'm just going to speak to my manager really fast. Okay?"

"Okay. I'll be here."

"Oh…Oh, yes! Yes!" The woman returned, realizing that Sylvia was being playful. Carefully, she disabled the computer's access code so no one could breach the check-in/check-out process, and ambled over to where the neatly trimmed man stood.

Casually, Sylvia reached behind her to her jean pocket, pulled out her phone, and hit the number one speed dial. Shortly after two rings, the other caller picked up.

"Pigeon?"

"Yeah, it's me." Sylvia returned sweetly.

"You're at the hotel?"

"Yep."

"I expected your call earlier."

"I got lost." Sylvia admitted modestly.

"It's been five hours."

"Hey! I already said I got lost, okay? No need to point out the already-made obvious."

"Did you miss an exit?"

"A couple of times, yeah. The hotel is pretty hidden away."

"That surprises me."

"Does it?" Sylvia teased. "It has a lot of wealthy people here. Suits and dresses."

"That makes you uncomfortable?"

"You know me. I'm all about simplicity."

Oswald snickered, "I'm surprised that sort of life still makes you uncomfortable, seeing as you're around it 24/7."

"No, I'm around _you_ all the time. You don't make me nervous. The lifestyle does."

"You've been living the lifestyle for almost four years."

"Don't spout logical statements at me." Sylvia returned, smirking.

She could hear Oswald's amusement through the other line. After a moment, his laugh sobered, and he said lightly, "Are you in your room?"

"No." Sylvia answered. She glanced at the panicked receptionist and the equally confused manager, adding, "For a five-star hotel, I'm not feeling too confident about the arrangement either."

"Why is that?"

"Well, it's never a good sign when the staff are confused."

"Ah. I see."

Sylvia sighed, "Push comes to shove, I'd hate to see this thing end up in violence."

"Why would things get violent?"

"Falcone arranges a room, days in advance. The staff are confused, almost panicky. I'm about to get told that they don't know what the hell I'm talking about." Sylvia mused. "Sounds like a nasty combination for a feud all because of miscommunication."

"And that would make you violent?"

"Well, not _me_. I wouldn't mind going to a motel. I'd be in my comfort zone, at least. I'm just thinking of what Falcone might do when he finds out that the hotel didn't book the reservation. I'll have to protect these people, you know."

Oswald didn't say anything to that. Perhaps he had his own idea of what would happen if the same situation included himself.

"Did you go to the Founder's Dinner?" Sylvia asked conversationally, watching two more staff members approach the Maître D' in midst of this confusion. Probably trying to verify who'd spoken to the former Don and allegedly verified the reservation.

"Not yet."

"Not yet? I thought it was tonight."

"It was rescheduled."

"They can do that?" asked Sylvia curiously.

"Evidently, 'they' can."

"Is Ed there tonight?"

"No, he has a date. I'll give you two guesses as to who it is with." Oswald returned sarcastically.

Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes: "She's not in the mansion, is she?"

"No. They went out."

"Well, that's a small relief, isn't it?"

"How is that a relief?"

"At least you don't have to see them together."

Oswald chuckled ironically, "I guess that _is_ a relief."

Sylvia watched as two more staff, a total of five people including the manager, talk in vehement whispers, arguing amongst themselves. Oswald listened to the silence of the environment, evidently, as he didn't say anything at first.

"Sylvia?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to meet this woman."

Sylvia turned her attention completely to the phone, asking, "You're going to talk to Isabella?"

"Yes."

"And what, by chance, would you say to her? 'Get away from my man'? That might be a little awkward."

"Stop teasing. I'm not in the mood." Oswald said grumpily.

"Just trying to lighten the situation," Sylvia replied apologetically. "What would be your reason for going to…Shit, where does she even work?"

"I'm surprised Ed hadn't told you."

"I asked, but he didn't want to say. I think I worried him."

"That doesn't shock me in the slightest."

"Hey!"

"You have an intimidating way about you, Darling." Oswald reassured—she could see his mischievous, but proud, smile again. "You intimidate everyone around you, if it be your intention."

"So where does she work?"

"At a library."

"So, he's moved on from records custodian of the GCPD to a librarian. I guess we know his type."

"No. _We_ don't." Oswald retorted.

Sylvia tilted her head to the side and said softly, "Passive-aggressive, much?"

She heard him scoff on the other line.

"Why would you have to go to the library anyway? What's your reason for running into her?"

"There will be a lot of ancient families at the dinner, Pet. Why not brush up on their history for my own situational awareness?"

"Sounds boring to _me_ , but that's a clever ploy." Sylvia offered. "If you're checking books out of the library, find one about the Dumas and the Waynes duking it out over some woman who decided to open her legs to the wrong dude."

"Would that be classified as 'research' or 'light reading'?"

"Both? It's nice to seek out inspiration from reading material. I figured since it inspired _you_ to cut off Butch's hand, I figured my muse might get something out of it as well. Can't say it would be completely utilitarian."

"Is that right?"

"Mm-hmm. If anything, it might just help me get my rocks off for the next couple of days since I won't have access to _you_. Not unless you want to get a little adventurous on the phone tonight."

Sylvia grinned broadly when she heard Oswald snicker.

After what seemed like a half-hour of the staff members pointing fingers, the receptionist 'called it quits' and she came over the desk, looking scared out of her mind, but determined. She bravely met eyes with Sylvia, who smiled politely.

Sylvia said lightly, "Sweetheart, I'll have to call you back."

"The jury is in?"

"I think they've reached a verdict; I'm about to speak to its foreperson," Sylvia returned, glancing at the receptionist, who minded the computer in order to distract herself from whatever conversation Sylvia was having.

"If there's a problem, let me know."

"Don't I always."

"Not _always_."

"Point taken. I'll talk to you later, Sweetheart. Love you."

"I love you too, Pet."

She hung up.

The receptionist said shakily, "Ma'am, it appears there _is_ no reservation under the name 'Falcone'."

"It was made a few days ago," Sylvia offered politely.

"Yes, well…about that…" The receptionist glanced at the six other staff members as well as the manager, then she looked back at her. "It seems that there was some miscommunication during that time; one of our staff was recently let go for taking reservations but not booking them. And, unfortunately…Since then, we've not really been able to remedy the past few bookings."

Sylvia looked at her for a second, tilting her head to the side curiously. The receptionist seemed to shake in her heels as she awaited the torrent of indignation; instead, Sylvia glanced at the sign-in book.

"Could I see this?" Sylvia asked, gliding her hand over the book cover.

"S-sure…"

After getting permission from the receptionist, Sylvia gently took the sign-in book and placed it in front of her. She flipped through four pages, dating back a few days ago.

"When people make reservations over the phone, do you log that?" She asked curiously.

"Yes. Yes, we do."

"When they come to the desk to make a reservation, do you have them sign-in as well?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It tracks our busy work, really." The receptionist replied quickly. Her words stammered as she managed, "Sometimes they don't sign-in though…"

"Ah."

"Ma'am…"

"Yeah?"

"We can try to book you in another room, if that's your preference." The receptionist offered lightheartedly.

"Do you have any rooms _to_ book?" Sylvia asked without looking at her. She flipped another page, smiling widely. "Well, there's Falcone's signature. And…ah…to the right, there's the person that helped him book the alleged reservation…" She pointed to the name. "How do you pronounce that, honey?"

The receptionist glanced at the name and said with the most bitterness one could summon: "That's Mr. Eisenhower—we used to call him 'Mr. E'."

"He's the one that had to be let go?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Because he'd take reservations but not book them?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"How long was he doing that, do you wonder?"

"A couple of weeks."

"What a rascal," Sylvia mused, clicking her tongue. "Where does he live, currently?"

"We don't know…"

"You don't know or you can't tell me?"

"Um…"

Sylvia smiled as the manager came to the receptionist's rescue. He appeared just as nervous, although more in tune with his emotions. He'd had some stress management classes in the past, at least—or it seemed.

"Elisa, would you…" He said shortly.

The receptionist breathed out a sigh of relief and said quickly, "Yes, sir…Um…I was going to book her another room, but…"

"There are no rooms available," Sylvia finished for her without looking at either of them. She closed the sign-in book as gently as possible, but even with that noted, the two staff members winced.

"Elisa, go…"

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Falcone—" He began.

"I'm not a Falcone," Sylvia returned quickly. She smiled prettily, adding, "It's Sylvia. Carmine Falcone made the reservation under his name; I'm simply the person for whom he made the reservation. What's _your_ name?"

"Dwayne."

Sylvia nodded, asking, "Let me ask you this one question."

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"If you knew this 'Mr. E' was causing mischief, trying to go through the backlog of all the reservations he took but didn't book, wouldn't you have first gone through the ones you did know about? The ones that he wrote down in this book?" Sylvia asked, holding the sign-in book up indicatively.

"Well, our goal was to go back two weeks, then work our way up."

"I see, and how has that been going?"

"Not well…" Dwayne answered honestly. "Some of the reservations he took, he didn't write down."

"So, finding the missing ones…That's been difficult."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Are you open to constructive feedback, Dwayne?"

Dwayne blinked a few times, surprised by the sudden inquiry. Compelled to make her happy, he nodded.

"If I'd been in your shoes, I'd have worried less about the invisible reservations and be more worried about the ones that Mr. E _had_ written down. I'd have tackled them first, then proceed to figure out the ones that hadn't been written down. It'd have made your job a little easier—not to mention mine." Sylvia explained gently.

"Yes, ma'am. That _does_ sound like a better strategy."

"For what it's worth, being in charge of a worker like Mr. E does have its limitations and its backfires." Sylvia said understandably. "I can understand the pressure you're under—I've had a similar circumstance during which a few of my own employees were less than competent. It's one of the drawbacks of being the boss—being responsible for shitheads."

Dwayne let out a small, incorrigible laugh as he said agreeably, "It's a blessing and a curse."

"Ain't that the truth."

She looked him over a few seconds and said lightly, "I like you Dwayne. You seem to be a smart chap—a bit nervous, a little too cowardly for my taste, but a smart person, none the less."

"Cowardly?" He responded indignantly.

"Mm-hmm. Instead of confronting me yourself, you sent one of your sheep ahead of you to take the blow." Sylvia explained, gesturing in the direction that Elisa The Receptionist had eagerly escaped. "Seems like an underhanded way of escaping what is an inevitable confrontation—a waste of your time, and what's vastly more important: mine."

Dwayne cleared his throat uncomfortably, shifting the weight from one foot to the other as he said shamefully, "You're right, ma'am. You're absolutely right. It wasn't my best moment."

"I'll tell you what. Just for that admission of guilt, I'll do you a favor. I'll be the one to tell Falcone. But stay nearby, 'kay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Sylvia looked through her phone.

She briefly smiled at a text from Oswald:

' _I'll be looking forward to that phone call tonight, Pet_.'

She sent him a winking face:

 _; )_

Then she dialed Falcone's number.

It was about nine o'clock at night. She wondered if the former Don even had his phone on him during this time. He'd mentioned he'd been more in tune with re-establishing the relationships he had with his children; did he even—

"Falcone."

Sylvia chuckled, "And here I was thinking you might not pick up."

"You're calling me, Lark. Am I to presume that you're having a problem with the check-in process?"

"An impasse, so to speak."

There was a pause, then he said pointedly, "You were supposed to have been checked in five hours ago. You just now arrived?"

"I missed my exit a couple of times."

"That's an aggravation."

"One of many to come, trust me. You're going to get a kick out of this."

"Am I?"

Sylvia snickered, "Well, maybe not _you_. I forget you're not one for jokes or playfulness."

"What's the issue, Lark."

 _No playfulness at all_.

"The man who took your reservation was let go for negligence a few weeks ago," Sylvia explained, business-like. "After talking to the manager, it sounds like he needed to be fired a long time ago; they're still trying to figure out all the other reservations that were either booked incorrectly, or not at all. Guess which category yours fell under."

"I don't care for guessing games, Lark."

"Clearly not." Sylvia muttered. She continued seriously: "The reservation isn't in the system, sir."

"Is the manager there with you?" Falcone asked disappointedly.

Sylvia glanced at Dwayne, who met her eyes nervously: "Yes, sir. He is."

"Hand the phone to him."

"Of course." Sylvia lowered the phone, handing it to Dwayne, adding, "I tried."

Dwayne took the phone and he said as professionally as possible, "Sir, this is Dwayne Diggen. How may I help—"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows in surprise as Dwayne hadn't even finished the first half of his introduction before Falcone laid into him over the phone. For a man who spoke so coolly and business-like, Falcone's harsh dulcet tones could be heard from where Sylvia stood. She leaned against the desk, watching Dwayne's forehead brim with sweat and give Falcone some half-spoken sentences before he was cut off numerous times.

"Yes, sir…Well I know…No, sir, that's not…Of course, we have, but…. No, there's no need for…Well, I can…No, you're right…"

Sylvia watched Dwayne lower the phone before he handed it to her.

"He'd like to talk to you." Dwayne said hoarsely.

She put the phone to her ear: "I'm back, sir."

"Sylvia, I apologize for this inconvenience; when I booked the reservation, I expected a great deal more professionalism and business from this hotel." Falcone said sincerely. "To my understanding, there are no other rooms available."

"That's what I'm given to understand too. Sir, I wouldn't mind going to a motel—"

"That's not necessary."

"Pardon?"

"You'll be staying with me."

Sylvia could have choked if she had something in her mouth. Instead, she smiled with a discomfort and said politely, "Don Falcone, that's probably not a good idea."

"It's probably one of the best I've had and assuredly should have been my first one. I refuse for you to stay at a roach-infested motel, Mrs. Cobblepot. It would be unfitting to my standards as I'm sure it would be to your husband's disappointment."

"I'm not comfortable with this idea, sir."

"Do you fear for your safety?"

"Not particularly."

"Should I be wary of a personal vendetta you may have against me or my children?"

"Of course not! It's not that I fear for the safety of your children, your life, or my own."

"Then what is it?"

"I fear for my marriage," Sylvia said half-jokingly.

"Would the Mayor be displeased to know that you would be staying in my home? Does he believe that I would hurt you?"

"Sir, I think—"

"Enough talk, Mrs. Cobblepot. It has been decided. You'll stay in my home; I'll have a guest room made up for you. You may park in the front; use the same door. My men will meet you there; they'll do a weapon search—I hope that doesn't deter you from feeling at home."

"Of course not. I have my men search me for weapons _all the time_ at home."

"Your sarcasm is well-warranted, but not necessary, Lark."

"Sorry, sir." Sylvia returned, smiling in spite of herself.

"I expect you here within the hour."

"Yes, sir."

"I may be asleep by the time you get here; if you have trouble finding the place, call my daughter. Odds are, she'll be the one showing you to your room; I'd have one of my own men do the job, but I'm sensing that the Mayor would not be pleased with that arrangement."

"I doubt he'll be happy about _this_ one." Sylvia reminded. She added pointedly, "With all due respect."

"It's only for a few days. I'm sure he is able to deal with my conditions for just as while longer. As are you."

"Yes, sir."

"Also, get me the name of the gentleman who is responsible for this egregious oversight."

"His name is Mr. Eisenhower; people call him 'Mr.E'."

Falcone chuckled, "You already knew I'd ask for it, didn't you, Lark?"

"I've been through this line of questioning before."

"Oh, I'm sure of that."

"I'll be there in an hour."

"I'll let Sofia know."

Sylvia heard the dial tone; Falcone had hung up. She looked at Dwayne, who returned the uncomfortable look but for different reasons.

"This can't be good for business," Dwayne muttered.

"It's not good for anyone." Sylvia returned, smiling ironically. "Where does Eisenhower live?"

"On the outskirts of Gotham," said Dwayne. "I can write the address down for you, if you like."

"I'd like that very much."

"Yes, ma'am."

He hurriedly took a sheet of paper, scribbled the address, tore it off the sign-in book, and handed it to her just as quickly. She took the piece of paper gratefully, then left the hotel, heading for the beach house.


	32. Sofia Falcone

Chapter Thirty-Two: Sofia Falcone

* * *

Finding Falcone's beach house had been a lot easier than finding the hotel. For the very fact that it was literally _on the beach_. Or at least within clear vision of it.

Sylvia pulled up to the front as the owner had requested. As she did, she sat in the car, admiring what looked like a pavilion. During the day, it would take her breath away; under the vast moon light, the sight of it was enchanting.

White stony walls set up the home, marble-like brick paved the foundation and its entry point. Vines of red roses climbed its sidings, spun and tangled along its gutters. Past the entrance and along the backside of this home was a patio; on it were a gathering of white tables, chairs, a grill, and a freshly mowed lawn.

Before announcing her arrival to its infrastructure, Sylvia called Oswald, who picked up on the second ring.

"I'm not in bed yet," Sylvia said smoothly.

" _I_ am." Oswald sighed contentedly.

She heard his tone change since the last call, one of which was all too familiar.

"Have you been drinking?" She asked knowingly.

He giggled, "What do _you_ think."

"A man left to his own devices, all alone in a mansion—I guess I shouldn't be surprised. There's been a change of plans."

There was a shuffling on Oswald's side, as if he was sitting up in bed with a difficulty but a determination to do so. A grunt that was quieter than a whisper as he repositioned himself. He said seriously, "What's the change of plans?"

"The reservation at the hotel wasn't booked."

"So, I take it you'll be staying at a _motel_?"

"It's amazing how you and Falcone share the same disgust for motels when the only ones I've ever stayed at were actually really nice." Sylvia returned, leaning back in the driver's seat. She glanced at the front door; thankful no one had been ready to receive her the moment she'd pulled up.

"You sound different, Pigeon."

"Do I?"

"Well, _I_ think you do."

"And how do I sound?" Sylvia asked.

"Uncomfortable." Oswald answered frankly. "Like you've been placed in a situation. One you're not familiar with."

"Even when you've been drinking, you can still hear that in my voice?"

"I can be ten breezes short of the wind and still be able to figure out when you're feeling discomfort, Pet. If you've not been able to pick up on that, I'm going to start to feel a certain way about us." Oswald uttered.

Sylvia smirked, hearing his words not exactly 'slur' but he did pause a second or two in between some them; it was the result of his mind trying to work at its maximum potential while being doused in a mixture of bourbon and whiskey.

"It's because you know me so well, is that it?"

Oswald sighed, "Inside…" (He paused to take a drink from his glass) "…And out, Pet." He cleared his throat as his voice had come out hoarse, and said pointedly, "If the hotel wasn't booked, where are you staying tonight?"

"You're not going to like it."

"I won't?"

"Not at all."

"Tell me."

"Falcone wants me to stay at his beach house for the time I'm here." Sylvia informed calmly. "He doesn't want me to stay at a motel, and since the hotel turned up to be a wash-out, he's not putting me up at any others either."

"You're there?"

"At his beach house, yes."

"For tonight and…?"

"The next three days, yes, honey."

"Falcone expressly said this?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

Sylvia chuckled, "You seem like you're taking it pretty well."

Oswald sighed again and uttered deliberately, "I'm not, but I have about six shots of whiskey in me, Pet. So…You're going to have your own room, I imagine."

"A guest room, yes."

"Plenty of security there, if I know Falcone. You'll be safe there."

"One can only hope."

"Just remember our conversation about that imbecile over there."

"Imbecile?"

"The tramp." Oswald specified.

" _Who_?"

"Your ex." He reminded. "The parasitic vagabond."

Sylvia chuckled, "You mean 'Alex'."

"He's one of Falcone's guards, is he not?"

"One of his hitmen, yes."

"So, I'm given to believe he's in Falcone's _humble_ abode."

Sylvia grinned: "Yes, I guess he would be."

"Why does it sound like you're smiling?" Oswald questioned.

"Because you're fucking adorable when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk _yet_ , love." He said with a deep sigh, and she heard him pouring another drink. "I'm waiting for you to get into bed before I get to that point. I'm looking forward to it, actually."

"Because you're looking for a little action on the phone, is that it?"

"I wasn't until you suggested it."

"So, now you're hoping that I'll follow through?" Sylvia asked, smirking.

"Oh, at this point, I expect you to."

Sylvia saw someone approaching. A woman.

"Someone's coming up to the car, Ozzie. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you, Pigeon."

"I love you too, baby."

Sylvia stepped out of the car, meeting a woman she'd seen once already. Full lips, long cascading brunette hair, a pair of doe eyes…It was the same woman she'd passed on the boardwalk when she had been walking with Victor, who had mentioned the name to her.

"Hi," Sylvia greeted first, smiling at her. "Sylvia Cobblepot."

"Sofia Falcone," the woman returned just as politely.

They shook hands.

"My father was expecting you," Sofia returned lightly. "He recently turned in for the night."

"He was serious when he said he'd be in bed within the hour," Sylvia chuckled. "The man keeps time better than a watch maker."

"You have _no_ idea."

The girls exchanged a small laugh.

"Come with me; I'll show you around." Sofia offered sweetly.

As she followed the woman, Sylvia noticed a few things about her. The woman in question wore a long sleeveless white dress, possibly utilized as a night gown than for an outing; the way she walked, she'd been humbled as a child, but she still had a confidence about her. The way she talked, she was raised to be polite, and formal; there was an edge of crass there, though.

She was first brought to the living room, where Sofia introduced Sylvia to a few of the guardsmen; all of whom greeted her with similar formality.

"You can leave your things here," Sofia offered, smiling. "They" (she gestured to the guardsmen) "can take your bags up to your room. I'll show you the rest of the house."

It wasn't a choice, it sounded like. Instead, more of a pre-requisite to staying in the home itself. Sylvia accepted her offer (was it one, really) and followed her; Sylvia was given the tour of the bathrooms, kitchen, and then they both headed outside to the patio, where two spots were reserved and a glass of water was placed at both settings, along with potato salad and hamburgers.

Sylvia looked at the two dinner settings with curiosity.

"I figured you might be hungry," Sofia offered, placing a hand on one of the chairs. "After my father explained to me what happened at the hotel, I didn't think you would have stopped for dinner along the way."

"You're right. I didn't. But you didn't have to go through all this trouble. I'd have gone to one of the fast-food places around here."

"It wasn't necessary."

"Now, you sound like him." Sylvia said, smirking at the woman.

"Who?"

"Your father."

"Yes, I get that a lot." Sofia said modestly, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Aside from relieving you of a second trip, I thought it might be a nice way of getting to know each other…considering the fact that you and I will be neighbors."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows: "Neighbors?"

"Your room is directly beside mine." Sofia explained with little effort. "My father thought it would make you feel more at home to have a bedroom beside a woman's. From what I've been told—which is barely anything—staying here was not your first choice."

Sylvia commended her for giving it to her directly. Sofia had a way about her that reminded Sylvia of Carmine—the straightforward way of talking, the lack of joking centered around her overall sense of professionalism and general personality. Her and Mario seemed to be of the same upbringing, although Sofia seemed to reflect more of the 'good daughter' charm than Mario did as the 'good son'.

As the two women sat across from each other, the would-be casual affair felt less than warm. The dinner itself was on the patio, generously lit by the fire whisk bramble torches around them, and the light that overflowed from the dining room to the porch.

Sofia was quiet, for the most part. Eating her hamburger, drinking from her glass of water. Sylvia had never felt so uncomfortable in the presence of a woman, never the less anyone. Perhaps it was her own knowledge that Sofia had grown up surrounded by splendor, raised by a crime lord, while Sylvia hadn't.

"So…" Sylvia began, smiling. "This is a nice place. Great decorations…and by the beach, no less. How long have you lived here?"

"Since I was a child." Sofia answered almost immediately. She finished chewing her food, patting her mouth with a napkin, before adding, "I was born in Gotham, but when I was thirteen, he made me live down here."

"And you've been here ever since then?"

"Yes. I have," She answered—and she didn't sound happy about it either. "My father was under the impression that Gotham was not safe."

"He had the right impression."

"I'm sorry?"

Sylvia explained, "Gotham is still as dangerous now as it used to be. That hasn't changed. Lots of crime—it's everywhere."

"It was my home."

"I'm not saying it wasn't, or that you'd have been happier here or there." Sylvia reassured. "I'm just putting into the light that what your father did is something that maybe any parent has considered doing."

She thought of Csilla the moment she'd said it.

Sofia considered this. She ate another bite of her hamburger. For a moment, she was quiet again. In the inkling of the silence, Sylvia looked out towards the beach, seeing the water of the ocean undisturbed. In the morning, there would be ships and boats docking it at all angles; for now, it seemed relatively calm.

"It looks so serene." Sylvia commented.

"Hm?"

"The ocean."

"Is this the first time you've seen it?"

"I've seen what the ocean looks like from the pier," Sylvia offered. "But it seems different here. If that makes any sense."

"Did you live on the streets at one point?"

The question itself was so jarring and yet Sofia had said it so casually. For a second, Sylvia had to process the information, just so she was aware that it hadn't been misheard.

"Did I what now?"

"Did you live on the streets at any point?" Sofia asked curiously.

"No…Why do you ask that?"

"You just have a way about you."

"I'm sorry. A 'way'?"

Sofia smiled suddenly: "I'm sorry—I didn't think you'd be offended by the question. From what I've heard about you, you're very casual and crass, not easily offended."

Sylvia shrugged: "I'm not 'offended' per se, but that was a very random question. Personal, too."

"I only ask because you seem out of place. I didn't know if that was because of my offering that we have dinner together, or if you were just unfamiliar with this sort of lifestyle." Sofia explained, gesturing to the dinner itself, then to the house indicatively.

"Dinner with a Falcone has never been the most comfortable situation. And no—if given the choice of fortune or simplicity, I usually head for the casual dining. To answer your question: No, I've never lived on the streets. But I've come close to it."

Sofia said gently, "That must have been hard."

"Not at all." Sylvia said, shaking her head. "It was a challenge, and I liked it for the better part. I had a home while I was a kid. I was born and raised in Gotham, but there were times when—much like yourself—I didn't feel like I was home."

"Why is that?"

"It's not something I care to explain to someone I have just met." Sylvia told her politely. "I only mentioned it since you put a little bit of yourself out there in the open; I thought I'd return the sacrifice, since you felt compelled to do it. Maybe it was to build some rapport with me, make things less awkward between us—I appreciate it, but since I'm only going to be here a few days, there's no real need to build any type of foundation. So, don't feel obligated to offer me friendship."

Sofia smiled genuinely: "Well, I'm glad we could get that out of the way."

"If it's all the same to you," Sylvia expressed congenially, "I'm only here to plan this engagement party for your family so Mario can have a great memory for his marriage. And I'd like to do it as quickly as possible so I can go back home to _mine_."

"I can understand that."

"Thanks. Now…Um…Where is this room?"

"Oh, I'll show you!" Sofia exclaimed happily. She took Sylvia's arm, and nearly pulled her up the stairs.

Once they came to the threshold, Sofia gestured to the first room, saying, "That's your bedroom. I already made it up."

"Oh, thank you." Sylvia said sincerely. She opened the door, and smiled at its casual-feeling atmosphere.

"It's not much for a last-minute arrangement."

"Not at all. I like it. It's really homey."

Sofia smiled, saying, "Father will be happy to hear that."

"At this point, I think he'll be happy to hear anything after that hotel debacle."

"You're not kidding. He's a hard person to impress."

"Aren't all fathers." Sylvia muttered.

She glanced to see Sofia looking at her with a certain expression that she'd not yet displayed. Was it one of understanding or sympathy?

"You're going to be right next door?" Sylvia asked.

"Directly, yes. That doesn't bother you, does it?"

"It wouldn't matter if it did."

"Why is that?"

"It's only for a few days." Sylvia reminded. "At this point, I'll deal with whatever mild inconveniences come my way. Thank you for showing me around, and for the dinner."

"Not at all. It was nice to have the company talk about more than just sports." Sofia said kindly. "Breakfast is usually served around eight; our cook makes the best omelets if you'd like to try them. If you need anything, just knock on my door; I'm a light sleeper."

"Will do."

Sofia waved like an eager child and then left to her room, closing the door. Sylvia looked after the direction in which she'd gone, and simply shook her head. It wasn't the first interaction she'd had with a Falcone, but it was by far the most interesting one.


	33. A Dirty Phone Call

Chapter Thirty-Three: A Dirty Phone Call

* * *

The bedroom in which she would sleep for the next three days was homey, as she'd told Sofia. It felt more like the room that she and Oswald shared at the Van Dahl mansion; naturally, it wasn't the same. It had a television in the room; it sat adjacent to the vanity desk and wardrobe. Beside the bed was an end table; on it sat a lamp, alarm clock, and a small candle, which according to its label, was vanilla-scented.

Even though it was only for three days, lying in the bed made Sylvia wish it was a shorter time period. All alone in the Queen-sized bed…Was it so terrible of her that she missed her King, even though she'd only spoken to him less than two hours ago?

She cuddled underneath the blankets; they smelled like fresh linen, maybe a hint of lavender. Perhaps that had been Sofia's preference—she doubted the other blankets in the house smelled so feminine, seeing as the rest of the occupants were male.

Somewhere in this place was her ex, probably sleeping by now. And if he wasn't, maybe he was doing something else?

It wasn't a thought that had come to her mind, not the forefront, at least. She knew he was here, somewhere. Perhaps his bedroom was just down the hallway. Did he know she was arriving? Probably. He lived with the Falcones; surely, his boss would have given everyone the brief that someone like Sylvia ('Lark', he might've referred her as) would be staying a few nights due to the unfortunate oversight on the hotel's part.

 _Alert the comrades_ , _strengthen the border_ , Sylvia thought humorously.

After dressing down for the night, she shifted under the blankets. Uncomfortable. At first, she couldn't sleep. Then, after an hour of restless turning and exasperated sighs, Sylvia stepped out of bed, approaching her suitcase that the gentlemen downstairs had brought up per Sofia's gentle but strict orders.

Sylvia remembered that she'd brought a video. Although she hadn't expected to watch it—hell, she hadn't even thought of buying it.

She unboxed the DVD, pressed the button on the player below the television set; a mechanical sound followed the tray slowly ejecting. The DVD was put inside.

Sylvia reached for the remote beside it, and then sat in the bed, shifting the comforters forward so she could slide back underneath them. A lamp on the bedside was turned on as she clapped her hands; after putting two pillows atop the other, she slowly leaned against them, then she began to feel comfortable again.

She skipped past the trailers of movies that had already long been previewed, played, and forgotten. The idea that she'd be watching this movie had not dawned on her, even when she'd bought it.

In fact, had Sylvia not stepped foot in the gas station, asking the staff for directions to the hotel, she might not have been given such a dirty recommendation by the equally perverted gas station attendant.

The feeling around the gas station attendant had been 'aggressive' at best; perhaps he didn't get out much, or seeing Sylvia was just the highlight of his week…

 _Or maybe even his year_ , she thought modestly.

'A great midnight watch', he had described the movie in her hand, which she now currently watched. 'Gives you something to think about on those long, lonesome nights, you know'.

She hadn't known.

Until now.

Before watching the movie, it had been a long time since she'd felt so alone in a house so big. Perhaps the last time she'd felt this way was when Oswald had gotten out of Arkham—the first few days had been alright, that was until he'd broken it off during the time he had still been brainwashed. While he remained with his unforgiving, spiteful stepfamily, Sylvia had stayed the night in the Cobblepot Crime Family's mansion (formerly Falcone's).

During that time, staying in that bed, she'd never felt so alone. She hoped she'd never feel that way again.

And although the situation wasn't nearly so dire or devastating, knowing Oswald was in Gotham while she was here…Lying in bed alone as he was too, that detached feeling had slowly reared its ugly head.

Maybe that's why it was so hard to sleep.

 _Don't think on it_. _Just watch the movie._

She did. She was three scenes in, feeling a little too hot and bothered. Her toes that had been pointed up now slightly curled; her stomach turned over in the most pleasurable way; and her heart beat a little too quickly. All due to the profound film, which had only built tension between its characters—nothing else had really happened just yet.

Then her cell phone rang.

Startled by the loud sound in such a silent place, Sylvia jumped; quickly, she grabbed it from the bedside table, answering it: "Sylvia."

"Hey, Pidge."

Sylvia smirked. Just the man she was thinking about.

"Hey," She whispered softly. She glanced at the time: "Darling, it's eleven o'clock at night. What are you still doing up?"

"I wanted to be sure you were okay."

"Well, I'm fine."

"Are you in bed now?"

"Mm-hmm. Finally."

"Yeah? When did you finally get settled in?" asked Oswald softly.

"An hour ago, maybe less. I've been a little distracted."

"By what exactly?"

"Just a story," Sylvia uttered.

"A 'story'?"

"Mm-hmm. I've been watching a movie. You sound less drunk; did you sober up?"

"No…I just feel _really_ good right now."

"Yep, sounds like you're drunk." Sylvia returned.

She heard him sigh quietly, in that same content way she'd heard before. And it made her smile.

"What are you watching?" Oswald asked; his voice was soft, quiet, spoken so gently and softly that it made Sylvia miss him even more.

"I don't think I should tell you."

"Why?"

"It might embarrass you."

"Oh, now I really want to know."

"It's a dirty movie." Sylvia whispered, licking her lips after the words had left them. "Honestly, it's making me a little…you know."

"Oh, really?" Oswald said interestedly; he obviously got the gist. "What is it about?"

"Two strangers meeting in an elevator."

"There's more to it, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah."

There was a rustling on the other line. He said curiously: "Tell me more."

"A man gets on the elevator first; he's in jeans and some type of black shirt. After the elevator goes up a floor, the woman gets on it with him. She's wearing a skirt…yellow-ish. Anyway," Sylvia informed. "Two people who have never met, who don't know each other from atom. They start talking about the small things."

"What kinds of things?"

"Like small chit chat stuff: the weather, stock market values, work, places they're going to go for Christmas."

Oswald chuckled, "How long are they on the elevator?"

"Long enough to probably start fucking—it's the entire premise of the movie." Sylvia returned honestly. "I'm about thirty minutes in, and they've started undressing. It got me thinking of us…but mostly you."

"You think getting stuck in an elevator with me might lead to illicit proclivities?"

"I don't think anything. I _know_ it would. I can barely keep my hands off you as it is. Being stuck with you in such a small, cozy little space—it would be inevitable."

She heard a satisfied sound leave his lips; it made her shudder pleasurably.

"And this story…It has you feeling a certain way, does it?" He asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"What is the woman wearing in that elevator?"

"Some type of skirt, I don't know. They had a whole chat about how the skirt was some type of flowing something-or-another, some type of cotton or shit. I don't know, I literally skipped ahead," Sylvia admitted, grinning. "Two or three minutes talking about fashion; I guess they're designers or something."

"What are _you_ wearing?"

Sylvia looked down, momentarily forgetting, herself. She rubbed the material with the tips of her fingers, "Oh, just my baby blue robe."

"Mmmm…I like that color on you." Oswald noted quietly. "Is that the only thing you're wearing?"

"Yeah. I don't have much else underneath it. And it's a little open, you know? The sash fell down on the floor, somewhere. I've thought about taking it off."

"Have you?"

"Mm-hmm." She hummed. "I wore it because it was a little cold, but now I'm kind of hot. Quid pro quo, baby. What are _you_ wearing, huh?"

"Nothing." Oswald returned shamelessly.

She could practically see his mischievous smile.

"Is that because of the heat?" Sylvia asked knowingly.

"Not at all," Oswald snickered.

"Well, well, Mr. Penguin. I guess you started long before me."

"What's with the tone? There's no shame in being prepared."

"None what so ever." Sylvia agreed.

"So, what's happening in the movie you're watching now?"

"Not much. A little more dialogue—some chitchat about how the guy wants to fuck her, but the woman is playing hard-to-get."

"I thought you said they were taking off each other's clothes."

"They're taking their _own_ clothes off." Sylvia specified. "They're talking about how they've had some bad dates in the past, and how they wished they would have done something stupid in their lives before getting on the elevator. I guess they think they might die, or something."

"Honestly, Pet, that sounds boring. You're getting hot and bothered by _that_?"

"I'm guessing you'd have written this scene differently, huh?"

"Would you have not?"

"Well, we both know how I am…I'm impatient. The moment those two got into the elevator, they'd been stripped down, and one of them would be gagged with her panties, although I'm not sure which." Sylvia said brazenly.

She heard Oswald sound off again; although this sounded more like a moan than anything.

"Are you alright over there, Sweetheart?" Sylvia asked, smirking.

"Just thinking of you."

"In what way?"

"You know very well 'in what way'."

"I know. I just want to hear you say it. I can hear the rustling on the other side. What are you doing?"

"Oh, wouldn't _you_ want to know."

"I do. That's why I asked." Sylvia said slyly. "Are you holding the phone?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So, what's the _other_ hand doing?"

"Think of the most obvious thing, Pigeon, and the first idea that comes to mind is the correct one." Oswald answered sarcastically.

Oswald Cobblepot, alone in the mansion, lying in bed with one hand holding the phone to his ear while the other hand slowly rubbed up and down his naked shaft was definitely the first idea that came to the forefront of Sylvia's mind.

"Daddy Penguin is being a little naughty."

"Mama Pigeon needs to get on his level," Oswald responded huskily. He moaned quietly, more in sexual frustration, adding, "Fuck…Nothing is as good as the real thing."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip, feeling the urge to just get out of the house, literally drive the four hours back to Gotham, just so she could—

"Want me to tell you what the characters in the movie are doing now?" Sylvia asked lowly.

"Might as well."

"As you like. But I'll have to make a few adjustments."

He listened to her intently; the sound of his quiet breathing hushed a little so he couldn't be distracted. Sylvia sat up, hooking the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could shimmy out of her robe, throwing it to the floor. After, she sat back, covering herself with the blanket, turning off the lamp.

"Did you make your necessary adjustments, Pet?"

"Yep…"

"What were they?"

"I took off the robe, and turned off the light."

"You're lying in the dark?"

"Yeah." Sylvia uttered softly. "All alone in this bed. Watching this movie…It's so sad."

"What is?"

"Being in this big bed and having no one to play with."

"You could always play with yourself." Oswald reminded.

"Is that right?"

"Follow your Master's example, Pet."

"Is that a suggestion?"

"It's a command." Oswald told her firmly. "Do it for me."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip and whispered, "Okay."

At her response, Oswald groaned.

She spread her legs, slowly bringing her fingers down to the pink entrance between them. Feather light strokes along her clit; her sharp intake of breath becoming a strong hint that she was more turned on than she'd originally gathered.

"The people in the movie are doing more now." Sylvia uttered, glancing at the television.

"Clearly, so are we."

"You got _that_ right," She let out of a quiet snicker. "They're starting to make-out. Heavy. And they're naked now. Damn…They're really going at it too."

"Are they?"

"Yeah…Like if they were going to starve, they might eat each other alive. The woman…She's going down on him. Slow at first, then taking him in her mouth— _damn_! This movie does a lot of close-up angles! Like she's really going for it!"

Oswald snickered, "I'm so happy that after everything you've seen, the movies can still impress you. Considering, you've done a lot more than suck _my_ cock."

Sylvia's heart flittered, and her stomach gave a fantastical, pleasurable lurch. It was not often that he became so brazen with dirty talk; but damn, when he was in the mood, he was _in the mood_.

"If we were closer together, I'd be riding that cock." Sylvia murmured, fighting her urge.

"If distance was of no consequence, we would be doing more than just talking about it. That's a promise." Oswald returned; his voice became more strained, like he was holding himself back.

"Fuck…" Sylvia whimpered.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm rubbing my clit, and it feels great, but I really want to finger myself." Sylvia whispered. She felt her body flush with heat; her hips were slowly thrusting on their own accord, begging for more friction as her fingers rubbed the swollen bundle of nerves.

"I really want to, but I'm trying not to."

"Why, Pet?"

"Because I want to be good for you. And I'm trying not to fuck myself…Not until you tell me to."

Oswald's soft moan became almost a growl; the admission of her subservience, even though she was miles away. It was turning him on, making him harder.

"Are you Daddy's good girl?"

"Mm-hmm…."

"Yes, you are. I know you are, my good little lark."

Sylvia bit her tongue, hoping to muffle her moans. After all, she was sleeping in the room directly beside Sofia.

Her slick wetness covered her clit; she circled her fingers up and down the swollen nub, ghosting her fingers over the silky entrance between her wet petals.

"Are you stroking your cock for me?" Sylvia whispered.

"Yeah."

"Do it faster, then." Sylvia murmured. She let out a wanton moan when she heard his. "Fuck… _fuck_ …it feels so good."

"Are you close?" He panted.

"Yeah…" She managed. "I'm _so_ close, baby…!"

"Do what you need to do, then."

"You're giving me permission?" Sylvia asked desperately.

"Yes, Pigeon. Come for me."

Sylvia thrusted her fingers inside, rubbing her clit with her thumb; her back arched; her toes curled. She dropped the phone to the bed sheets as she bit down hard on the pillow so her loud moans were muffled.

As she slowly came down from her high, Sylvia shakily took the phone and placed it against her ear. She listened to Oswald doing the same, his soft, shaky whimpers mimicking her own. Just as she glanced up at the TV, she noticed the movie was about ten minutes from ending.

"I can hear you breathing," Sylvia uttered, smiling. "You sound happy."

"Happy enough."

"Why is that?"

"As much as I miss the physical activity, I'm missing what comes after the most."

Sylvia beamed: "You mean the cuddling."

"It's one of my favorite things to do with you."

"Just hug a pillow and pretend it's me." She suggested.

"I don't think I can sleep this far away from you."

"It's only for a few days, remember? Now, even less."

"I feel a hangover coming on tomorrow morning; I'm going to sleep. I love you, Mama Pigeon."

"I love you too, Daddy Penguin."

She let him hang up first, then she lied down. It was easier to sleep this round.


	34. A Run-In with the Rooster

Chapter Thirty-Four: A Run-In with the Rooster

* * *

Thank you so much for the reviews, **JaliceJelsa4eva** and **SilverIce523**! You all are so sweet XD

* * *

Sylvia sang as she showered; it was part of her usual routine, really. She'd brought her shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, applying it in that order, and as she stepped out of the tub, her voice ricocheted off the tiles and walls of the bathroom in a beautiful rendition of _Carmen, Act 1: Habanera – 'L'amour Est un Oiseau Rebelle'_. As it was, she sang in French.

From the rack on the wall, she grabbed a towel, flinging her hair forward to dry it, then the rest of her body. After, she hopped into a pair of leggings, and threw on a plain black off-the-shoulder T-shirt; slipping on a pair of matching flats, she left the bathroom, and strolled through the corridors, admiring the framed pictures that were adorned behind the glass on the walls.

She hummed the aria, thinking of Oswald; he loved hearing her sing those classical pieces. Inadvertently, her thumb touched the wedding ring on her left hand, circling the piece of jewelry unknown to her.

As her mind wandered, Sylvia wasn't looking ahead as to where she was going and she'd bumped into another person. At first, she apologized.

That was until she saw who it was.

And seeing her, the man smiled widely.

He was six feet, five inches tall. Comparably to him, Sylvia, who was only five feet, he was a giant. Light blonde hair, almost the color of platinum, covered his head in the classic male trim, one that flattered his sharp jaw bones, which were attractively covered with a five o'clock shadow of the same hair color. Gray eyes which were reduced to slits as the man grinned.

"Sylvia!" He exclaimed; his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Oh, great," Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Hi, Alex."

Alex smirked, saying, "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Not talking to you, that's for sure." To prove her point, she slid past him.

However, that wasn't the end of the conversation. He simply followed her onto the patio where she thought she might lose him but her endeavor was less than successful. Seeing as this was so, Sylvia turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing.

"No, really, why are you here?" Alex asked excitedly.

"Not that it's any of your business, I'm helping Falcone plan his son's engagement party."

Alex furrowed his blonde eyebrows, saying, "I thought he'd already gotten someone to do that for him."

Sylvia stared at him: "What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"What I mean to say is that Don Falcone brought reinforcements."

"Who?"

"Some chick named 'Lark'."

Sylvia still stared at him.

"From what I hear," Alex snickered, "She's a fighter. Cute probably… You look good after all these years—she may be cuter than you, although I doubt it. What do you think?"

She gingerly put her hands on his shoulders, a gesture that he smirked at knowingly. That was until she lifted her leg and with the brunt of her strength, she kneed him in the groin. He let out a less than attractive squeal, holding his bits and pieces as she stepped back.

"That's _me,_ you idiot!" She said, gesturing to herself. " _I'm_ 'Lark'."

He took some deep breaths; Alex straightened after he'd gotten a hold of himself, although he rubbed his balls too pointedly for her taste. With one hand on the banister of the patio's railing, the other rested lightly on his hip; he wore slim blue jeans and an open-collared, white, long-sleeve shirt—taking care to show off his excellent physique and large biceps. The shirt itself looked as though it might tear open at any moment…

"You're Lark, huh?" Alex said with a cheesy smile. "I didn't know."

"That doesn't surprise me. You don't know much to begin with."

"Ah! Still mouthy. Glad to see you haven't changed."

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

"So…Don Falcone calls you in, and you decide to stay the night, huh? Was that his idea or…was that _yours_? Obviously, you had to know I was here, right? Right?" Alex said with a hearty chuckle; he nudged her playfully in the rib.

Sylvia glared; and she turned to him completely.

"What the fuck are you doing?" She asked coldly. "You're trying to make small talk with me? Thinking we're gonna be buddy-buddy after the _shit_ you put me through the last time we talked?"

"The last time we talked? That's been ages."

"Thanks to you, you **fucker**!" She spat.

"Whoa!" Alex said, eyebrows raising again. He puts his hands up cautiously: "Let's be a little civil, huh? I haven't called you any names, you know."

"'Civil'? You want me to act civil? To **you**?"

"Look, Sylvieeee, baby doll—"

She punched him in the throat.

Alex made a gagging sound, holding his neck as he leaned over the railing, almost daring to puke. She stepped towards him dangerously, and pointed at him.

"Don't you _dare_ call me any of your fucking pet names." Sylvia threatened quietly.

He found his voice again.

Alex said coldly, "You just made a huge mistake."

"Oh, what? Because I punched you?"

"I'm Falcone's right-hand man—"

"—No, you're a laughing stock—"

"I've killed people, you know—"

"So have I!" Sylvia shouted, glaring at him. "What, you think because you've killed a few people, you're hot shit? I know plenty of people who've killed, and they're five times the man _you_ are, you jackass!"

"Oh yeah?!"

"YEAH!"

"Why are you so mad, Sylvia? Slept on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Your very existence pisses me off."

Alex chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

"How is that funny? You think that's pretty fucking funny, huh?" Sylvia questioned.

"I just miss you is all. And look…Oh shit, it's just funny, you know? You got me all wrong. Look, I know I left, but I was only looking out for you."

" _Really_?"

"Yeah. Like, I was facing jail time and you were so sweet, I couldn't put you through that."

Sylvia laughed derisively, "Fucking excuses, Alex! That's all you got."

"That's not all I've got…"

"No? What's the real reason you left, then? Huh? I'm a big girl now. I could've handled it before, and I can handle it now."

"What, you think I lied?"

"I know for a fact that you _did_ lie to me."

"So, why'd I leave you then? You seem to know the truth. Since you know it _so well,_ you tell _me_ what you think it was."

"Fine. You got in over your head—You got rich because you happened to steal from a cattle auction, scored big. You left me because you were afraid that I'd try stealing from you when, really, all I wanted was _you_."

Alex seemed startled by the realization. He shrugged, saying, "Honestly, I _really_ was looking out for you. I didn't want you to be sitting outside of the jail, waiting for me, you know? I mean, I loved you. I really did."

"You sure had a hard time showing it." Sylvia said coldly. "You think you were _saving_ me from being hurt, but you _are_ the reason I was hurt." She crossed her arms over her chest. "You fucked me, then left me in Gotham to rot. You think your leaving town was to help me? It was to help you. All you could ever think about was yourself."

"Not all the time. There were some things I was really good at. You know…"

Sylvia gave him a look: " _When_? Name one circumstance when you thought about someone other than yourself."

"In bed."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, "No, even during sex, you were thinking of yourself."

"Not how _I_ remember it."

"Well, maybe you hit your head and suffered amnesia."

"Or you can't remember; from where I'm standing, the sex was unforgettable. We could relive those memories, if you have a few minutes."

Sylvia stared at him: "Are you fucking serious?"

"It'll be better this time, because I learned a few things."

"Fuck you, Alex."

"Fuck you? Well, I did fuck you."

"Might as well fucked myself," Sylvia returned callously. "It would've felt good, at least. Probably have lasted longer than a few minutes too."

"Sylvie—"

"Ugh, I'm going back inside. Do me a favor, and don't follow me."

"Sylvia—"

She started walking back into the mansion. He took her wrist, trying to pull her back so he could further explain himself. The moment his fingers wrapped around her arm, she reached forward and scratched his face with her nails.

"Fucking _bitch_!" He shouted, holding his cheek, letting her go. "What the hell! I was just trying—"

Alex's harsh voice was silenced by a calmer, albeit firmer, tone.

"What is happening outside on my patio?"

It was Falcone, who was dressed amiably in a suit. He glanced at Alex, who was holding his cheek where he'd been scratched, then to Sylvia, who was glowering at the bodyguard with all the hatred she could muster.

"Sir!" Alex said meekly. "She attacked me, she—"

"Silence, young man."

Alex attempted to say more, but Falcone's words were deadly whether they had been spoken loudly or as quietly as they had been. Falcone looked at Sylvia, who met his eyes indignantly.

"How did you sleep, Lark?" He asked curiously (much to Alex's dismay).

"Reasonably well," She answered breathlessly; the remnants of her hatred left her voice sounding hoarse instead of sweet.

"Did my daughter give you the tour?"

"Yes, she did."

"How was your dinner?"

"It was nice."

"Oddly enough," Falcone expressed proudly, "That meal wasn't provided by our cook. It was Sofia's idea to do the deed herself."

"She's quite the cook," Sylvia said, nodding to him. "The dinner was great."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Sir!" Alex said, stepping forward. "She straight up assaulted me, and—"

"That's enough, Rooster."

"But, sir—"

"If she assaulted you, I believe she must have had a good reason to do so." Falcone said logically. He pointedly looked at her for an explanation.

"We used to date." Sylvia explained, glaring at Alex.

"From what I've seen so far," Falcone mused, "I'm guessing things ended badly between you two?"

Alex said sarcastically, "You could say that."

Sylvia frowned at Alex, saying, "It _is_ that."

"Look, I know we had some past hiccups when we were dating—"

"You _took_ my virginity—"

"—Can we not have this conversation in front of him—"

"—and you left me because you didn't think I could handle your criminal lifestyle!"

Alex stared at her: "You knew?"

"Of course, I knew! My brother does backgrounds checks on _all_ of my dates. Including you… _stupid_ fucker."

"How would your brother know?"

"He's a _cop_!" Sylvia shouted as her eyes widened at his idiocy. "He can look you up in the computer, **stupid**!"

"Stop calling me 'stupid'!"

"Well, I can't help it! You **are** stupid! I don't even know why I liked you in the first place. You weren't even worth my time—"

"I think I did pretty good!"

"Yeah, stealing from dime stores and Mom-and-Pop shops. _Real_ fancy. Is that why you call yourself 'Rooster', because all you could afford to rob were little hen houses!"

"Maybe, but I was making bank!"

"Rolling pennies on a cardboard box, you mean."

"Like you were doing any better—You were taking shit from stores too, you know—"

"Yeah, when I was fucking fifteen."

"I bet you _were_ fucking when you were fifteen—you felt loose for your first time," Alex snapped, his face turning red in embarrassment; he took a step towards her. He lowered his hands, adding, "And I'm taking all I can from the world and doing great! Just so you haven't figured it out, princess, I'm working for one of the best bosses in the world, and if you think you can do better—"

Falcone interrupted calmly, "I feel like introductions should be made at this point."

Alex and Sylvia glanced at him; both blushed red, having forgotten that he'd been standing there during their argument.

"Rooster, this is Sylvia Cobblepot; 'Lark' to many of the Gothamites; she is also the Mayor's wife."

"I know she's the 'Lark' and—wait…" He stopped himself, looking at Sylvia uncertainly. (Was it really uncertainty, or disappointment?) "You're…You're with Penguin? _The_ Penguin?"

Sylvia smirked at him: "Yes, I am."

"You're _married_?"

" _Yes_ , I'm married."

"I thought—"

"Sylvia, I'd introduce you to Rooster," Falcone continued smoothly, "But I figure you already know who he is."

"I'm not proud to say that I do." Sylvia said with an admission of disgust.

"Grand. Now that introductions have been made, we may continue to discuss the proceedings that led to the reason you are here, my dear." Falcone offered lightly—it was a firm suggestion that the conversation between Alex and Sylvia was to be dropped so the engagement party could be planned.

Falcone gestured to the inside of the mansion; it was in that direction that Sylvia proceeded to stroll by his side. Alex simply stared after her, incredulous and taken aback.


	35. Planning the Engagement Party

Chapter Thirty-Five: Planning The Engagement Party

* * *

Falcone and Sylvia were in the kitchen. The table at which they sat was meant for nearly ten people, counting the chairs—for now, the two remained at the very end. Falcone was seated at the head of the table while Sylvia sat on his right, fitting as the former Don addressed her as a righthand woman even as they chatted casually about the venue at which the party would be held, the customary theme, the catering businesses, and whether aforementioned venue would be able to accommodate the large number of guests.

Between them were a number of binders, pamphlets, hard copies of books as well as paper, and an array of business-like spreadsheets; the latter was full of prices for caterers and venue lots.

"What about a park?" Falcone offered as a brainstorm starter.

"A park is ideal, but you know the weather in Gotham…"

"Unpredictable."

"Quite."

"So, the park is out," said Falcone humorously.

"Not unless you want to plan an alternative location if a monsoon presents itself," Sylvia offered pointedly, glancing up.

"The park is out of the question."

"Reasonable enough," Sylvia returned, taking the brochures of parks out of the middle of the table; she casually threw them over her shoulder, a gesture that Falcone found amusing evidently as he let out a quiet laugh.

"What about a bar?" she asked curiously.

"My son is not having a party at a pub."

"Well, nothing as lucrative as that. A fancier one."

"You're not selling me, Lark."

"'Monet', 'The Quarter', and 'Le Done' are nice places," Sylvia offered, smiling gently. "They don't allow smoking, and the bartenders are sweet."

"I'll look into them, but let's discuss other options prior to making the decision."

"Fine, then. As you prefer."

As with the park brochures, she threw any pamphlets associated with the pub atmosphere over her shoulder, a few were swept off the table with the side of her hand, for save the three options that were 'fancier'.

"I'd consider hosting the event in my own home," Falcone volunteered smoothly. "It would take the cost out of the equation."

"And welcome thieves and ninja assassins to finish picking you off," Sylvia reminded.

"Not if I can filter the guests."

"Gatecrashers find a way in, sir. No matter how well your security is trained."

"You speak from personal experience?"

Sylvia smirked: "I've been on both sides."

"You used to gatecrash?"

"I still do when it suits me."

"That's not very nice, Lark." Falcone said, smiling a little.

"Oh, the Don has a sense of humor," Sylvia said with a snicker.

"It's just not professional."

"Never claimed to be, sir."

"I doubt your husband has been able to make peace with that."

"Well, marriage is full of compromise." Sylvia sighed, shrugging her right shoulder.

"Isn't it though."

They shared a small laugh.

At that point, one of Falcone's bodyguards approached the table with a tray, holding two drinks, both of which were sea breezes. Falcone humbly thanked the guard, who grinned broadly; the former don rested the drinks on a coaster, placing one in particular in front of Sylvia.

"Do you want a straw, Miss?" asked the guard.

"No, thanks. I'll drink it out of the glass." She said sweetly.

"As you like." The guard left shortly after.

Falcone leaned forward, grabbing a binder from the middle of the table, and opened it to see the many ideas that Sylvia had been considering for in-house decorations. A number of colors were thrown together; some were more thought out; others were clearly brainstormed.

"Red and green decorations?" Falcone chortled. "This isn't Christmas time, Lark."

"Just a suggestion. What about silver and gold?"

"No. Mario doesn't care much for the combination."

"That's odd, considering he was raised by _you_."

Falcone looked at her curiously. Sylvia took a drink and it was only when she realized what she'd said that she smiled at him apologetically.

"You don't have a filter, do you?" Falcone said knowingly.

"No disrespect, sir, but I don't change my speaking habits for anyone. Not even you." Sylvia said politely.

"You speak to everyone this way?"

"I don't discriminate."

"I like that," Falcone said, nodding with a smile. "I like the way you think. That says a lot about a person, you know, when you treat everyone the same regardless of where they've come from or what they do…who they are."

"I figured you would be agreeable to that." Sylvia said with another shrug.

"And why would you assume that?"

She said lightly, "You wouldn't have agreed to work with me if you weren't okay with it."

"On a contrary," Falcone said respectfully. "I'd have asked for your services even if I wasn't. Business is business; if two people who are in business together agree on more than just the completion of a task, it's _**good**_ business."

"And if two people don't agree?"

"Well, at that point, it's just a job."

Sylvia looked at him for a moment. She put her drink down and said seriously, "Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"How come you stopped being a Don?"

"'Stopped'? What makes you think I ever stopped?"

Sylvia cocked her head to the side: "Didn't you?"

"I stopped working in Gotham, but, even to this day, I am still a Don. You don't stop being a leader when the job is finished, Sylvia. You continue to be a leader, no matter where you are."

Sylvia smiled knowingly, "That's a good point, sir. But you haven't answered my question."

Falcone said softly, "I know."

"You don't want to tell me, then? Is that it?"

"Partly so."

"Why not?"

Falcone said politely, "You are a nice person, Sylvia Cobblepot. I said this already that you are warm and caring. However, you are still married to one of the most ambitious and carnivorous rivals I've ever encountered. If our business relationship somehow turned ugly, I can't depend on the fact that you wouldn't tell Penguin what we've discussed during your stay here."

He touched her wrist gently.

"And you can't promise me that you'd keep my secret." Falcone said knowingly. "I know how loyal you are to him, Lark. I know you'd do anything to keep him on top, to keep him power. If it meant betraying my secret or staying loyal to your husband, we both know which would come first."

Sylvia smiled guiltily.

"I'm not saying that's a bad thing," Falcone said lightly, smiling. "In fact, I wouldn't hope for anything different."

After a moment, he looked at the decoration's binder once more, saying, "I think Mario and Lee would favor red. Maybe even red and gold. What do you think?"

"What you want is the reason I'm here." Sylvia offered, smiling—thanking the heavens above that the serious moment finally had passed and they could move onto proper business.

"What about the catering business?"

"No seafood."

"Is that a preference?"

"A strong recommendation," Sylvia explained. "People don't know they're allergic to shell fish until the opportunity comes a-knocking. Then you have an ambulance to deal with, and a disaster in your wake."

"The possibility of a dead guest, you mean?"

"Well, I was talking more about a ruined party, but, sure, a dead person would definitely mean a disaster."

Falcone chuckled, "You have a dark sense of humor."

"Duly noted." Sylvia said, winking at him. She scribbled in a separate binder where the suggestions that made it to the party were written down. Without looking at Falcone, she asked, "What kind of food does Mario like?'

"He'll eat anything."

Sylvia smirked, "I guess doctors are included?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind."

Falcone shook his head at Sylvia's dirty humor, then he asked, "I would prefer that hors d'oeuvres be served."

"Might want to go with your cooks on that one. A busboy or a cook who isn't under your employ might have a vendetta against one of your guests," Sylvia explained. "Or, more likely, against you."

"And if I had my people watching them?"

"Then it could easily turn out to be an inside job."

Falcone leaned back in his chair, an arm rested on the back as he said candidly, "I fear you may foster a healthy sense of paranoia, my dear."

"When it comes to Gotham, it's necessary."

"I had no idea that while Cobblepot was working under Fish that he had been watching me the entire time." Falcone said amusedly. "I must have taught him that…Inadvertently, of course."

"It has served him well, sir."

"And he taught you to keep a little paranoia in stock then?"

"No. My paranoia came from my father and brother." Sylvia said, grinning widely. "Sorry—you can't take credit for that."

Falcone looked at her, at first a little startled, then he said warmly, "You have a playful side. I never noticed."

"Well, in your defense, this is the first time we've conversed, barring lethal circumstances."

"You have a fair point."

"I still recommend you have your own cooks prepare the dishes for the engagement party. Pay them more than what you would normally." Sylvia suggested, gesturing to the room itself, adding, "If they see an incentive for doing well, they'll do you a favor and speak up when someone tries paying them half of what you gave them…They'll be reporting the little shits before the event presents itself."

"Is that what you would do in my situation?"

"Without a doubt, sir."

"Very well. In-house preparations, it is. My staff will have you to thank for their pay raises." Falcone said endearingly. He drank from his glass after he warmly chuckled about that. "So, we've discussed decorations, catering…"

"You haven't picked a venue, yet."

"That'll come in time."

"What about a guest list? Invitations?"

"I've already sent out the invitations," Falcone said dismissively. "Alex prepared them himself."

Sylvia scoffed, "I'm surprised you leave such a daunting task up to him."

At her spiteful tone, Falcone's lips quirked into a crooked smile as he said smoothly, "Your condescension and need to belittle him is understandable, Mrs. Cobblepot, but not warranted. If you need reassuring of his skill, here."

He stood up briefly, walking into the living room. In his small absence, Sylvia grumbled to herself but she was silent when Falcone returned, holding an envelope in his hand. He placed it gently in front of her; still, Sylvia looked at it unhappily.

"Take a look, Lark."

She opened the envelope, and glanced at the invitation. It was beautifully written out that the person who may receive the invitation was cordially invited; the letters were hand-written in calligraphy by a fountain pen. White letters on slick royal blue background.

"He did a good job, did he not?" Falcone asked.

"He sure did." Sylvia admitted, staring at it. She held it up, asking, "Did he do all of them?"

"Personally, yes."

"Amazing." She muttered—more bewildered by her ex's hidden talent for penmanship as she was of Falcone's admissible pride.

"Lark."

"Yes?"

"If it's not too bold of me to ask—"

"Is your question about Alex?" Sylvia interrupted him, putting the invitation on the table, face down. "Because if it is, I have no wish to talk about him…"

"Well, unfortunately, it _is_ about my staff."

"Shit…Okay, what's your question?"

"Are you at all interested in killing him?"

Sylvia stared at him; eyes wide: " _What_?"

"Do you want him dead?" Falcone asked.

"No, I understood your question the first time. I'm just…surprised…"

"Well?"

"I mean…No, I don't want him 'dead' per se…" Sylvia said uncomfortably. "I'd just prefer it that he not be alive."

"So…You _do_ want him dead."

"Well, it's not even that," Sylvia said with a nervous laugh. "I just don't want him around _me_."

"Because of how your relationship ended?"

"Partly."

"But you have no wish to kill him?"

"Why are you asking me this?"

Falcone said firmly, "Because if there is any desire in your heart to kill him, I need to know. I'd rather there would be no hostility in my home while you remain here. If it be your intention to kill him, I would like to be aware of it."

Sylvia smiled uncomfortably: "No, sir. I don't plan on killing him."

"That includes 'maiming'."

"I don't plan on it."

Falcone nodded: "Fair enough. Now—onto entertainment. As you know, I'm paying for your services primarily in this department."

"Right. With a favor."

"Of course. I know you can sing—how you received your title primarily centers around your talent for song. Sing for me now."

Sylvia blinked: " _Now_?"

"Yes."

"You want me to sing _now_?"

"Yes. I'd like you to sing for me now."

"W-what do you want me to sing?" Sylvia asked.

"Whatever it is you're comfortable with. What do you _prefer_ to sing?"

"Well," Sylvia uttered nervously. "I have different avenues, you know? I can go from arias and operas or I can freestyle rap to my heart's content. It's whatever type of company that I'm entertaining that would determine what I sing."

"Is that so?"

"Basically, yeah. So…you know… _That_ said…W-what do _you_ want to hear?"

Falcone smiled gently. Not at her, really, but probably at a memory. He said lightly, "Do you know Gianni Schicchi's 'O Mio Babbino Caro'?"

Sylvia clicked her tongue, nodding: "I do."

"I'd like you to sing that for me."

She asked curiously, "Does that hold any certain value to you, sir? That song?"

"It's a song I hold quite dear to my heart. My mother had it on the record player frequently; it's one of the things I remember fondly." Falcone offered voluntarily.

"Do you want me to sing it now?"

"Yes."

"Without music?"

"Do you need it?"

"Well, no, not really."

"Then have at it," Falcone said lightly, gesturing to her. "If you are to perform at my son's engagement party, I'd like reassurance in knowing that if the music dies, you'll still carry on with little effort."

Sylvia laughed nervously, saying, "Okay…Odd request, but nothing I've not been asked to do beforehand. Sure…Let me…" She cleared her throat a couple of times. "Here goes nothing."

And she sang it.

Beautifully.

Just as she had sung any other song before.

Just as she did, Falcone closed his eyes, remembering fond childhood memories.

As he did, Sylvia was aware that from the living room walked Sofia Falcone, who heard the aria just as surely as she was remembering the days when she was younger, when she and her father had been slow-dancing to the song, remembering their own fond memories before the criminal lifestyle took over his life.

Sofia stood at the doorway between the living room and kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest as she relaxed against the door frame, listening.

Sylvia's voice shook, more out of nerves than anything. She still hit the pitches just as she always did, becoming more aware that there was no music to accompany but still performing reasonably well.

From the patio, Alex slowly sauntered into the kitchen, watching Sylvia. He frowned, more out of his own petty disappointment for not having known Sylvia possessed such God-given talent; it was at that moment, when he heard her voice, that his hard eyes softened, and he slowly smiled.

As Sylvia's voice trailed off and the song ended, she smiled when Falcone opened his eyes.

"Enchanting." Falcone uttered breathlessly, wiping his cheek quickly. "Your name was well-deserved, Lark."

"Aw, shucks." Sylvia said, waving at him.

"That was really beautiful," Sofia agreed.

"Wasn't it though," Alex said lightly, nodding his head even while his hands had been stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans; he sounded almost proud.

Falcone gently patted Sylvia's hand on the table, saying, "You'll be the best entertainment a father could find for his son's engagement party, Mrs. Cobblepot. I know you won't let me down. That said, I think we should take a break."

"Will do, sir." Sylvia returned, saluting him playfully.

Falcone chortled as he walked over to his daughter, putting a warm arm around her shoulders so they could compile the guest list further and ramp up the security. Sylvia stood, brushing a few strands of her ginger hair behind her ears; she straightened the pamphlets and binders with little rhyme or reason—it was just something to do at this point while Falcone tended to other business.

"You sing good."

Sylvia looked up at Alex, who stood across the table; his hands rested on the back of the chair that his boss had only seconds ago occupied.

"I'm so _glad_ you think so," Sylvia uttered sarcastically.

He cleared his throat, shedding the distance between them as he stepped around the table, standing beside her. Sylvia instinctively dropped the pamphlets and other items on the table and took a few steps back away from him.

"I'm sorry, you know."

"About _what_?" Sylvia questioned coldly.

"You _know_ what."

"You have plenty to be sorry about." She said, pointing to him. "You'd have to specify what you're apologizing for."

"I'm not afraid to, if that's what you're implying."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time you proved yourself to be a coward. Running away from what we had—that was maybe the fiftieth time."

"I'm not a coward."

"Aren't you?"

"No. I'm not."

"You literally ran whenever you had a chance to prove how much you loved me," Sylvia told him coolly. "Honesty takes courage, you know. Being open with another human being takes courage. Instead, you lied to me about all of it—you chose cowardice over courage. Instead of running _to_ love, you ran _from_ it."

Alex said reproachfully, "I didn't lie about anything."

"You're lying about _that_ now? Seriously?"

"I didn't—"

"You could've told me that you were ransacking people's cars, or stealing from gas stations. You could've told me you had some kid or two out and about and that you were afraid to be a dad—I would've called you a shit father, but you'd have been honest with me. That's all I really wanted."

Alex smiled guiltily, saying, "I wanted to tell you about all that stuff, you know. You meant a lot more to me than I cared to say. I mean, really, you were the first real girlfriend I ever had—well, the only one that ever called me on my shit."

"That's because you made it too easy—you were screwing up every time you turned a corner." Sylvia said, gesturing to the door.

Alex stepped a little closer to her. Sylvia looked at him carefully; her eyes ever so slightly narrowed at him, watching him.

"I didn't know you could sing." He said softly.

"Well…I can."

"Obviously."

"Yeah."

Alex was quiet for a second, then: "So…you're married to Penguin, huh. What's that like?"

"It keeps me on my toes." Sylvia returned coolly.

"What does your brother think about it?"

"He's tolerating it."

"Penguin's murdered a couple of people."

"So, they say," Sylvia said lightly.

"Bit of a twisted fucker, ain't he?"

"So _you_ say."

"And you're okay with it? Everything he's done?"

"I might have to be since I'm married to him."

"Do you love him?"

"If I didn't love him, I wouldn't have married him."

"Does he love _you_?"

"I'm about two seconds from putting my foot up your ass."

"I just wanna make sure he's treating my girl right."

Sylvia glared at him: "You're a fucking prick, you know that, right?"

Alex chuckled, "Call me what you want, Sylvie, but you know you'll always be my girl."

"If that was the case, I'd have married _you_ , instead."

"So, what's the answer?"

"To what?"

"Does he treat you right?"

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively, saying, "I don't feel like talking to you about him."

"Think he'd get jealous if he knew about us?"

"He _does_ know about us."

"And he let you come out here anyway?"

Sylvia frowned and poked Alex hard in the chest, saying, "He didn't 'let' me do anything. I do _what_ I want, and I go _where_ I want—something you and every other fucking asshole can't figure out, apparently."

Alex shrugged off her defensive retort, asking, "Is he better than me?"

"Mm-hmm!"

"Just emotionally, right?"

"I've been with Oswald in _every_ way possible," Sylvia said heatedly, "And he is better than you on every level you could possibly think of."

She started walking away.

"Guess that's who you were talking to on the phone, huh? Is that why I heard your bitch-moaning last night?"

Sylvia turned on her heel, looking at him incredulously.

Alex returned her gaze with a smug one; he slowly approached her, uttering, "You didn't know it, but I was in the room directly across from yours. I didn't know it was you making all those sounds, I guess I should've known."

"How could you have known?" Sylvia questioned icily. "You've _never_ heard them."

"Ouch." Alex drawled, quirking an eyebrow. "You really know how to kick a man when he's down."

"For someone who has small penis syndrome, you have an undeserving amount of big dick energy."

"Maybe that's something you like, seeing as how that's what you're attracted to. I've seen that little Oswald character on TV. Doesn't seem like much to me."

"That's like any other idiot that has ever crossed his path," Sylvia breathed. "People underestimate him—Maroni did, and he's dead. Your _boss_ did, and all of his businesses belong to him."

"Does he fuck like me?"

"Is that really the only thing on your little brain?"

"It's the only thing I've been able to think about since last night," chuckled Alex, smirking. "If you gave us another go—"

"Not in this lifetime."

He lifted a finger to her face, the tip smoothed itself along her jaw line. Sylvia flinched away in disgust.

"I know I talk big," Alex uttered sincerely. "Honestly, it's just great seeing you again."

"Can't warm me up with your sex talk so you're going soft on me?" Sylvia asked knowingly. "That worked in the past, but it won't work now."

" _Sylvia?"_

Alex lowered his hand from Sylvia's face and the two glanced towards the doorway where Sofia Falcone stood. She gestured kindly for Sylvia to come with her. Notably, the latter frowned and hissed at the bodyguard before quickly striding out of the room. Sofia smiled as she met with Sylvia in the living room.

"What is it?" Sylvia asked, concerned.

"Nothing," Sofia returned kindly. "You looked as though you were being cornered and I thought I'd help you out."

"Oh, well, you were _definitely_ right about that. Thank you."

"No problem." Sofia said happily, smiling. "I'm about to go to the barn; Artemis is getting restless."

" _Who_?"

"Artemis." Sofia explained. "He's my horse."

"You have a horse?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

"Well, it's Daddy's horse. He doesn't know it but Artemis has favorites."

"I'm guessing that you're one of them."

"I'd like to think so." Sofia returned proudly. "He's a handful, but all he needs is a little discipline."

"Something I'm sure you're able to provide."

"More than. Would you like to come?"

"Oh, no thanks." Sylvia said, shaking her head. "I'm not a 'horse person'."

"Have you ever ridden one?"

"Once, when I was five."

"Bad experience, I suppose?"

"I fell off and I was nearly trampled." Sylvia confirmed.

"That sounds terrifying!"

"It was traumatic." Sylvia giggled. "That said, no thank you. But I appreciate the offer."

"Well, if you change your mind…"

"I'll be sure to hesitate to ask."

Sofia grinned at her wit then she left to get dressed for such a task. As she did, Sylvia looked after her, pondering the relationship between them. She shook her head though with the decision that becoming a friend to someone like Sofia Falcone would not be in her best interest. She had enough problems as it was.


	36. A Good Morning

Chapter Thirty-Six: A Good Morning

* * *

The Founder's Dinner had been rescheduled due to business reasons, but the 'business reasons' had never been explained. Perhaps the wine had been soured, or one of the more important individuals had to postpone their own invite…Who really knew why the dinner hadn't taken place during the time and day it should have.

Allegedly (until it was otherwise stated), the guests all had received a second invitation in the mail. Sure enough, when the mail had been delivered to the dining table for Oswald's routinely look-through, he saw it—an invitation, addressed to him; and just as the last one explicitly stated, there were no plus-ones allowed.

Oswald flicked the card to the middle of the table; he uttered a word of thanks to Olga, who placed a plate of breakfast in front of him and a second platter in front of the chair closest to him on his right. Just as she walked out of the room, leaving Oswald alone, Ed replaced her company with his own.

"Good morning, Edward."

"And a very good morning to you, Oswald." Ed returned candidly.

Like the mayor, Ed had dressed for the day—first thing in the morning, as was his usual routine.

 _So predictable_ , Oswald thought lovingly. He could predict Ed's day-to-day activities and even his customary morning greetings easily as if they were his own.

Ed glanced at the invitation that had been swiftly discarded to the middle of the table. Curious, he took it in his hand, reading the elegant calligraphy, and lifted it up between his index and middle finger pointedly: "I see the second invite finally came. I'm assuming you'll be attending?"

"As always, your assumptions are correct." Oswald returned, grinning.

"Maybe the hosts will keep a look-out on their time table this rotation."

"If they don't, it will be just one more productive afternoon spent in its place."

Ed smirked: "You have a silver lining to almost any delayed outcome, don't you?"

"It's one of the gifts I've still been able to hold onto."

"One of many."

Oswald's heart skipped a beat at that compliment. And while he felt receptive to such praise and flattery, he suddenly found himself at a loss for words, mentally slapping himself for not just going with Sylvia's advice ahead of time. What had she said the other night? 'Just blurt it out'…Good idea, _Pidge_ , a lot easier said than done.

"Did you hear what I said, Oswald?"

Oswald looked at Ed, startled: "No, I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I was just asking about Sylvia. I've not heard anything since she left. Has she spoken to you?"

"I spoke to her last night."

"How's she doing?"

"She's fairing," Oswald answered quickly, thinking of the titillating phone call. He added nonchalantly, "There was an issue during her check-in process, unfortunately."

"Isn't there always?" Ed returned sarcastically. He sipped from his China cup: "What was the issue?"

Oswald rolled his eyes: "Laziness and negligence."

"Is she at a different hotel, then?"

"No. She's staying at the Falcones' residence."

The answer, spoken so coolly, made Ed startle in drinking from his tea. His eyes widened, and he appeared repulsed by the idea. And his words enhanced that disgust: "Sylvia is staying at Carmine Falcone's beach house. Please tell me you're joking."

"She's not in any danger," Oswald reassured.

"'Not in any danger'?" Ed repeated. "She's sleeping under the same roof as _Don_ Falcone. And others. That doesn't concern you?"

"It did worry me, but she's capable of handling herself."

"So, _she_ thinks."

Oswald tilted his head to the side at Ed's overprotective response. He was used to hearing it; that wasn't the issue. What perplexed him most was the sarcastic edge to his tone.

"You think she's in mortal danger?" asked Oswald lightly, crossing his arms on the table.

"You and Falcone haven't the best history. I'd suspect that she would be in danger. And even if Falcone wasn't playing 'host', I doubt I have to remind you that her ex is staying there as well…What's his name…Richard…? Allan…?"

"Alexander." Oswald corrected.

"Whatever." Ed muttered. "He's just as bad as the rest of them."

Oswald narrowed his eyes: "The rest of _who_?"

"You know. _Them_."

"The Falcones?"

"No—any of her exes."

Oswald chuckled in spite of himself, earning an indignant glance from Ed in return.

The latter said reproachfully, "What's so funny?"

Kindly, Oswald asked, "Have you ever met any of her boyfriends?"

"Aside from you? No. Have _you_?"

"No. I haven't, but that's the point I'm making."

"What's your point?"

Oswald explained, "How can you know who her past lovers are if you've never met them?"

"I don't find it necessary to have met them to know what kind of people they were…or _are_ , in this 'Rooster's case." Ed returned coolly. He drank the last of his tea, his breakfast forgotten: "She spoke to me about a few of them, you know."

Oswald nodded, perhaps having already assumed that she might've talked about her past relationships with other people besides himself. It wasn't lost on either of them that until she met Oswald, Sylvia had tangled with a lot of bad choices—some were clearly less favorable. Perhaps Alex had been one of the better options, since he hadn't seen his death pop up in the newspaper due to Sylvia's hand.

Ed had grown quiet, his eyes glaring down at a single area of the table. Oswald reached forward, and gently patted him on the wrist.

"She can take care of herself." He said softly.

"What was his name again?"

"Alexander Beals. His first name is David."

"Why do you call him 'Alexander' if his first name is 'David'?" asked Ed curiously.

Oswald thought for a second: "That's how Sylvia referred to him."

"Interesting."

Ed sighed, and picked up a fork, tinkering with the over-easy eggs on his platter. They were probably cold by now, but he insisted on filling his belly with nutrients. He had a few meetings to attend in Oswald's stead, and he hadn't the nerve to down a bagel or coffee on the way when there was a perfect breakfast right in front of him.

"Maybe I'm thinking too much about this," Ed resigned quietly, glancing at Oswald, who returned the glance. "You're right, of course. She _is_ capable of taking care of herself. Someone who goes by the name 'Rooster' of all things—I doubt she could…or _would_ …"

The words didn't leave his lips as Ed tried to convey the audacious speed at which his mind was daring to imagine. Oswald smiled in both knowledge and understanding; it was the same thought that had come to him, knowing that Sylvia would be sharing a residence with a man that she had claimed to love a long time ago…But that was it, wasn't it? It was a long time ago—and so much had transgressed between that time and the present. The fact that Ed's jealousy—his dedication to his whatever-love he felt for Sylvia—slowly seeped to the surface of this logician's usual cool façade made Oswald smile.

Ed looked at Oswald for a moment, asking, "You don't think she would…Do you?"

"I highly doubt it." Oswald returned confidently.

"You've had this same conversation with her?"

"I daresay I've been two steps ahead of you, regarding all of her past relationships." He teased, winking at him.

Ed grinned broadly, saying, "As you should be. What did she say when she mentioned this 'Rooster'—it's obnoxious having to use that title for him."

"Oh, I know," Oswald agreed, smirking. He added frankly, "Sylvia described her feelings towards Alexander in such a way, you'd appreciate the graphic imagery of it all."

"Was it similar to chemical burn or having her hand chopped off?"

"Not quite, but you're very close."

"She'd rather have her head sliced via guillotine?"

"You've heard her torture euphemisms before, haven't you?" Oswald teased.

"Most of them. Which did she use this time?"

"She favored the human torch metaphor."

"Ah! The 'lit-on-fire-and-if-there-was-only-one-person-with-the-glass-of-water-she-would-rather-burn-alive' preference." Ed said with a favorable, feline grin.

"You knew the one! Have you heard the pins-and-needles alternative?"

"Lemon juice and salt being the preferable condiments that come after." Ed said, pointing at the shakers on the table. "She _loves_ that one!"

Oswald and Ed shared a laugh. And while a mayor and his Chief-of-Staff might've encountered no further social _faux pas_ , the circumstance was different between Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma.

Suddenly, the atmosphere that surrounded and enclosed the two individuals became almost heavy, as though gravity was shifting its weight from the entire world onto them. Glances of familiarity were exchanged between them as Ed grinned at him while Oswald returned it—perhaps it was sharing their love for Sylvia that made this tension so tight and nearly suffocating.

Oswald might've said something, pulled from the conversation about a mutual love to the same type he felt for Ed; and if Ed even remotely felt the same, it appeared as though he might've used the same segue. Just as things might have gone smoothly for the both of them, Ed's phone began to ring—and to Oswald's dismay, he answered the call with the loving, and almost caressing, drawl that he always used when he said Isabella's name.

 _That bitch_ , Oswald thought contemptuously.

"Sure!" Ed said happily. "I'll bring it tonight. You want to see _that_ one? Why?"

The lack of context was catastrophic for Oswald's thought processes. A thousand ideas stormed his brain as to what Ed could possibly be talking about. Then the storms were calmed when Ed mentioned the item—it was some type of book.

Ed got off the call, and looked at Oswald with a small little smile.

"It's always a pleasure talking to you in the morning, Oswald. No company really compares to it, you know?"

Oswald looked at him, eyebrows raised. _Well,_ that _was an interesting thing to say, wasn't it_?

"Ed, I—"

"I have to get ready," Ed said quickly, taking his platter from the table. "I just looked at the time—it's about thirty minutes before the first conference, and I still have to drive there. The traffic is horrendous here!"

Oswald smiled, saying, "Of course."

Ed left the room. Meanwhile, Oswald frowned, glowering at his untouched cup of tea. It was amazing how one woman could worship the ground on which he stood while another could dismantle his entire universe in a single phone call.

 _Women_ , he thought grudgingly.


	37. Grumpy Oswald

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Grumpy Oswald

* * *

As he'd initially told Sylvia, Oswald was going to meet Isabella. The foot-in for the meeting was a happenstance stop to the library to gather reading materials so he could brush up on the old families of Gotham prior to attending the Founder's Dinner.

Seeing Isabella hadn't been too shocking. For all the spite he held against the woman, Oswald recognized why and how Ed might've become so quickly enamored with her. The uncanny resemblance to Kristen Kringle was nearly mind-numbing; with the exception of the librarian's platinum blonde roots, the two women could have passed for identical twins.

His reveal to her that Ed had been in Arkham was likely not his _best_ moment, Oswald could admit it if only to himself. But it was necessary. Perhaps learning that her new love interest was a criminal might gall her enough to break the honey moon stage so early in its development. Her stunned silence, the way she so openly reacted in surprise and (was it genuine) fear made Oswald feel confident.

Still…He needed to be sure.

Gabe was waiting for him in the dark brown vehicular ensemble. It was a rare moment that Oswald had chosen not to present himself in such an exuberant fashion as he might've done for any other situation—choosing what Gabe jokingly referred to as a 'Mothership' rather than the mayor's limousine. It was an inside joke that Oswald hadn't the energy to understand nor pretend to try.

As he climbed into the back seat, he idly allowed the cane to slowly sink down to the floorboard. When Gabe started the car, Oswald pulled out his phone, scrolled through the list of contacts before finding the name he wanted, and he waited for the other caller to pick up.

"Sylvia." She answered.

"It's me." Oswald returned curtly.

"Ooh, _someone's_ grumpy."

He passed over her tease, saying coolly, "I met Isabella."

The jokey tone she'd used before suddenly shifted into one of seriousness: "You didn't hurt her, did you?"

"Of course not."

"Were you in a public place?"

"The library."

"Of course—Why did I think a librarian would be _any_ where else." Sylvia returned cynically.

Oswald listened more closely to the background on her end. While he put his curiosity strictly to having become naturally observant of all of his surroundings, his true reason for being so curious as to what was happening on the other side of the phone was more primitive. Admittedly, he just wanted to be sure that Alex was nowhere around her while they spoke so casually on the phone—this conversation was meant for no one else but the two of them.

"Are you alone, Pigeon?" Oswald asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"What are you eating?"

"Oh, shit, you can _hear_ that?" Sylvia chuckled.

"I hear crunching."

"That's totally me, sorry. I'm eating chips."

Oswald rolled his eyes, saying, "That's distracting, Pet."

"Sorry. Hold on."

Some rustling in the background, mostly a bag of chips Oswald assumed now that the evidence was out in the open. A phone call laced with seriousness and cynicism on Oswald's part being met with Sylvia's simplicity—it made him lose his satirical edge so when Sylvia was back on the phone, he felt more inclined to ask her how her day was.

"It's a productive day," Sylvia said lightly. "Not too shabby—all things considered."

"'All things considered'?"

"Yep."

"Care to explain?"

"It's boring shit, Love." Sylvia warned.

"The work?"

"No, the shit."

Oswald rolled his eyes again, but instead of being annoyed, it was mainly due to her wordplay. She and Ed definitely had that in common—puns and riddles, alike.

"How was your morning?"

"That was more interesting," Sylvia answered.

He could practically hear her smile.

"Did something happen?"

"I met Alex."

"And how did that go?"

"Well, I hurt him a couple of times."

Oswald chuckled, "Why?"

"Did I need a reason?"

"I'd like to hear it, honestly."

"He grabbed my arm—"

"— _Did he hurt you_ —!"

"No, Ozzie. Calm down…" Sylvia cooed.

Oswald was already out of his seat, his seat belt strained against him as he reacted immediately. Gabe glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his eyebrows raising so that his usual droopy facial features convulsed into an instant expression of worry.

"Got a hell of a beating, really, I think." Sylvia continued casually. "He thought he'd be funny and think that Lark and I were two different people. To prove a point, I kicked him in the fruits and berries. Then he called me 'baby doll', so I punched him in the throat. There were some pleasant jabs back-and-forth, and when he tried to pull me back to him, I scratched his face."

"Sounds like you two had a wonderful reunion."

"Oh, one of the best."

"Are you alright?"

"Mm-hmm!"

"And what of Falcone?"

"He didn't do anything to me. No reprisal on my part." Sylvia explained lightly. "If anything, he seemed to think that Alex deserved it."

"I agree."

"Of course, _you_ would."

There's that teasing tone. Except it made him smile, the way she always found a way to do it in any given situation.

"So…You don't feel anything?" Oswald asked.

The question itself made him cringe.

He hated to ask, but he needed to know. Between Isabella's sudden intrusion into what could be a budding romance with Ed, and this Rooster guy being around Sylvia for three days, his insecurity was eating away at him.

"Nothing at all." Sylvia returned. "In fact, I think Falcone was happy to learn that too."

"What are you talking about?"

"He sat me down and asked if I wanted to kill him," She giggled. "Legitimately."

"What was your answer?"

"Well, 'no', of course."

"That's somewhat disappointing."

Sylvia said softly, "I couldn't muster that sort of energy into such a meaningless task, Sweetheart. That should actually reassure you—more than anything."

Oswald said skeptically, "How am I supposed to find that reassuring?"

"Obviously if I don't want him dead, then he's already pretty much dead to me. Don't you think."

"Hm."

"Poor baby. You really _are_ grumpy."

"I'm having a bad day." Oswald muttered, sitting back in his seat.

"You texted me earlier that you were having a good morning. You even sent me a smiley face."

"Well, I was having a 'good morning', but I'm having a bad day."

"Ah. Isabella really dampened your spirits, huh?"

"Speaking of which…"

" _Speaking_." Sylvia responded readily. "What about her?"

"You'll be finishing up there, won't you?" asked Oswald coolly.

"Mm-hmm. Before you talk about Isabella, I do have a small nugget of information to tell you."

"And what is that?"

"Falcone wants me to help with planning the entertainment and all, but we've discussed a few things beyond that."

"And they are?"

"I won't be staying the full three days." Sylvia told him strictly.

Oswald grinned at that. Not only because he was happy to hear that she would be coming home earlier (and therefore put his paranoia of her safety to rest), but his smile was also due to her tone.

It had changed from being playfully casual to one of business and professionalism. In Sylvia's place, 'Lark' had taken over. It was a thoughtful way of perceiving Sylvia's casual demeanor (when she was being Jim's Sister or Oswald's Wife) and her business-like, no-nonsense, get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way 'Lark' cordiality.

It was hard for Oswald to decide to which he was more attracted.

"You won't?" He asked curiously. "Was that his decision or yours?"

"Mine. And you'll appreciate the reason behind it."

"Will I?"

Sylvia said curtly, "Alex is going to be at the engagement party, some type of guard for Mario, Lee, and Falcone. Knowing he'll be there that night; I don't care to be around him more than I've already been."

Oswald furrowed his eyebrows—he heard that begrudging tone of hers, but there was almost an avoidance to it. Not fearful, as he was programmed to hear it instantly; he couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a tinge of something there.

"Did something happen?" Oswald asked carefully.

"Well, in not so many ways. He heard me sing, is all."

"And that would dismount your entire decision to be a part of a project you've single-handedly plotted every step of the way?"

Sylvia's voice softened as though she was trying not to be heard: "I prefer that he doesn't hear me sing any more than he already has."

"Why?"

"He heard me sing yesterday and, since then, he's been acting… _weird_."

"Falcone?" Oswald asked, confused.

"No. _Alex_."

"I see."

"Yeah." Sylvia murmured. "I mean, he's not done anything per se, and he's been nothing but friendly after I put him in his place for calling me his stupid pet names. It's just really awkward for me. Honestly, it's weirding me out."

"And by performing at the engagement party while he's present," Oswald said slowly, "You think he'd become more attached?"

"Maybe…No. I mean…Why—do you think that's what would happen?"

"You have an appraised skill of making people fall in love with you without ever really trying, Pet," Oswald said gently. He added with a tone of amusement and annoyance, "A useful skill, I might add, but, on the whole, it's just very frustrating for me."

"Well, then, you might be right. Right now, Alex is just…I see him, I know what he's done, and it pisses me off, but he's trying to be friendly. For Falcone's sake, for Lee, I'm trying to be civil. Maybe he's just trying to do the same thing? Maybe it's because I'm working for his boss or something? For Falcone…?"

Oswald felt hot beneath the collar suddenly, hearing her phrase, and he said irritably, "You're not working for Falcone. You work for _me_."

He heard her sigh into the phone: "I'm well aware, darling."

"Right…That didn't come out in the way I'd intended," Oswald murmured apologetically.

"It's okay, sweetie. I know you're frustrated right now."

Oswald felt a pang of relief—she could be so understanding, it nearly hurt.

" _That's_ an understatement." He agreed halfheartedly.

"I was going to tell you this a little later, but since we're already talking…Falcone and I were discussing the past, and my dating history" (she sounded more than cynical) "and he picked up on how awkward this whole thing is for me…Despite the fact that I've been doing _great_ at hiding it, you know."

"I have no doubt about that; you wear a very persuasive mask."

"Aw, shucks. Stop it."

Oswald smiled: "What is it?"

"For the engagement party itself, he's allowing me to extend my invitation."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. I can have a plus-one. You know Falcone's territory in and out, all of his capos, and they know _you._ I was hoping you'd come with me."

Oswald heard the soft, hitch in her voice. He smiled sheepishly.

For all the numerous times that Sylvia had teased him for being shy when it pertained to him asking her out even as they were married, Oswald felt smug for noticing that it was _her_ turn to sound a little flustered. Partly because she hoped he'd say 'yes', but there was an underlying emotion there. Because the Falcones were all in the same place, because all of Falcone's captains would be there, Sylvia was feeling out of place, out of her depth, so, naturally (as anyone would), she wanted a familiar face.

Someone who was familiar with the atmosphere, who could assist her in navigating those depths. Who better than Oswald to do that since he knew every nook and cranny when it came to Falcone's territory? Shyness all put to the side, Sylvia wasn't just asking him to be her date; she would just feel safer with him around, watching everyone else, including her.

"Is that what you really want?" asked Oswald gently.

"Yes. That's what I want." She answered; her voice shook a little. "The Falcones alone don't scare me, but…I'll be honest, working the engagement party itself in a house full of Falcone loyalists isn't doing me any wonders, I'll tell you that. I feel like they'll just wait for me to lower my fucking guard, and _whack_! I'm dead…I doubt Falcone would allow that, but then again…Look what he did to Liza when he was ready to get rid of her—and she looked and _acted_ like his own saint mother."

"I've not heard you bring up Liza in a while."

"Well, I didn't think on it until I thought of all the ways Falcone might get even with you and my life hanging in the balance of a party of fifty-plus guests just made me think of her death. Simple."

Oswald snickered at her cynicism.

"When's the special day?" He asked.

"Next Friday. That's not the same day as your Founder's Dinner, is it?"

"No. That's tonight, Pet."

"Oh! So, they finally sent you an invite…again."

"They did."

"Well, aren't they lucky to see you accept it a second time."

Oswald smirked at her playful tone, "'Lucky', indeed."

"So, will you come with me to the party?"

"I'd be happy to."

"Oh, thank god. I didn't know if you could pick up on it or not, but I was feeling a little…"

"'Afraid'?" Oswald suggested. "'Nervous'?"

"Don't gloat, Oz. Okay? Look, I know I said I didn't need any protection, and, by the way, I really don't. I can handle myself."

"Of course, you can."

"Yeah…"

A smug smile met his lips. That's _exactly_ why she wanted him to be with her. She wanted protection. While the temptation to brag about that was so decadent, Oswald felt more than validated that even after everything she could do, there was still a part of her that needed him for her peace of mind. Perhaps she'd realized it too, and she was having a hard time eating those proud words…admitting that she was wrong.

The silence said it all.

However, to assuage her pride, Oswald changed the subject: "You won't be staying tomorrow night, then?"

"No," She confirmed. "I won't. Falcone knows, I told him. We're just sort of powering through the last bit of details. Maybe if we finish early enough, I can come home tonight. I think at this point he's just grateful that I've come down South, period."

"As he should be."

He heard her quiet snicker: "Don't sound too jealous, Ozzie. You know you're the only man for me. And you have my undivided attention for the moment. That should put you at ease."

"Oh, I'm very much at ease…for the moment."

Gabe was slowly driving through the traffic, the car moved forward an inch every 10 minutes or so; as Ed had mentioned, Gotham's rush hour was horrendous. Oswald clicked his tongue impatiently.

"You wanted to talk about Isabella." Sylvia reminded.

"Yes, I did."

"Do you still?"

"Might as well. Traffic is at a stand-still."

"If you don't care that the driver watches, I'm more than happy to keep you company. Might take the tension off…if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," Oswald uttered quietly. "Unfortunately, I'll have to decline."

"Oh, yeah? Who's the driver?"

"Gabriel."

"Oh! Tell him I said 'hi', would you? Please—for me?"

"Oh, for the love of…" Oswald grumbled. He leaned forward and said pointedly (and loud enough for Sylvia to hear): "Sylvia says 'hello'."

Gabe cracked a grin: "Hi back to you, Liv!"

Oswald reclined back in the seat, putting the phone to his ear.

"Such a sweetheart," Sylvia praised, a soft chuckle looming after. "So, what is it? Did you talk to her? Isabella, I mean."

"I did."

"And how did it go?"

"Well. More or less."

"I'm guessing you told her about Ed being in Arkham."

Oswald frowned: "How would you know that?"

"Well, if some girl or guy wanted me to stop talking to you, they might have come up with the same idea." Sylvia offered.

"Would that have worked?"

Sylvia giggled, "If I didn't know you and someone told me you've been in Arkham, I'd become more attracted to you than anything. You know me; I don't mind a little danger. I'm a ride-or-die gal, you know that."

"I do."

"So, was she afraid?"

"She seemed to be."

Sylvia laughed, "You're so mean. Scaring librarians. How dare you."

Oswald sighed. She always found a way to tease.

"Try to be a little more serious about this, would you?"

"Okay, fine. Seriously, maybe she'll stay away now, you know? Most women are afraid of big, bad mayors…Then again, I've not met a single one, except you."

"Some people are allegedly afraid of Aubrey James." Oswald reminded.

"He can suck my dick for all I care."

"That's crude."

"Maybe, but I have a feeling _you_ wouldn't mind it." Sylvia drawled. "Sucking my dick, that is."

Oswald couldn't think up a quick enough response, and the mischievous snigger that echoed in his ear made the hairs on his arms and neck stand.

"I wouldn't mind it right now, actually. I've been feeling kind of frisky since last night," She whispered—her timbre lowered to a seductive, feminine purr. "I kept the strap-on from our wedding night. Given the chance, I'd use it on you again."

A pressure slowly swirled inside Oswald's belly, a dark impulse, a wish needing to be fulfilled, a guilty pleasure which needed to be satiated. The words alone…

"I need you to keep an eye on her." Oswald said firmly, inadvertently gritting his teeth, hoping that the heat of his face would slowly pale if business was discussed in place of Sylvia's dirty words.

"You're asking me to keep tabs on a woman that's trying to steal a man from you? _That's_ a cliché."

"I'm not asking."

"I wasn't questioning it." Sylvia responded matter-of-factly. "But if you scared her off, I don't see why you'd be so inclined to ask it of me, but fine. If it would make you happy, I'll do it."

"It would make me _very_ happy."

"Fine then. Consider it done. I'll start stalking this librarian the moment I'm finished with this engagement party. To be honest, I'm looking forward to it."

"Stalking?"

"No—being done with planning this party. Falcone is just _so_ anal about these details. Everything has to be _just_ so…Heh, speaking of 'anal'—"

"—Sylvia, not now."

"Can't help it. You're too fun."

"Remind me to never put you on speaker," Oswald chastised, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth just as he said it.

"You're funny." Sylvia giggled.

"Eat your chips, Pigeon."

"Aye, aye, Sir. I'll call you if I leave tonight."

"I'm looking forward to it. I love you."

"Love you too." She responded sweetly, and then she hung up.

Gabe was laughing under his breath. Oswald looked at him expectantly.

"She never fails to amuse me, y'know, Boss?" Gabe explained himself. "Listening to your guys' back-and-forth is always funny."

"Well, I'm glad it amuses you," Oswald uttered sarcastically. "Keep driving, Gabe."

"You know, Liv usually says ' _please'_." Gabe muttered, but he didn't look at the rear-view mirror to see Oswald's reaction.


	38. Dinner and Rhymes

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Dinners and Rhymes

* * *

Sofia Falcone steered Artemis around the field. When the steed tried to resist, he received one of two disciplinary responses from his rider: Either he was lightly kicked in the rib with the heel of her boot ('lightly' being the optimal word, here), or he was firmly smacked on his hindquarters with the leather-studded whip Sofia carried on her person. Her commands were soft but stern, or at least Sylvia assumed so from her surveillance point, which was the patio behind the pavilion.

It was a breezy afternoon; the sun was out, mostly hidden by clouds, a mild eighty degrees. Compared to yesterday which had been as gray and gloomy, today was actually beautiful, and resembled nothing of Gotham's dark and drab.

After a grilling morning, discussing the finishing touches about the decorations and musical innovations of the engagement party to come, Carmine Falcone broke the meeting in favor of a break. He had something of a small chicken farm a little way away from where Sofia currently whipped Artemis into shape; he'd gone there to relax his mind and worry a little less.

In the meantime, Sylvia stayed outside, treasuring the warm but breezy afternoon for her own contentment. As she watched Sofia, she subconsciously twirled her wedding ring around with her right hand, thinking in general about Oswald. It had literally only been a couple of days since she had left Gotham, but being away from him felt like an eternity.

They'd spoken every day, and while phone calls were great, there was nothing to replace the feeling of being physically close to him. She'd teased Oswald about wanting her cuddles after that dirty phone call, but honestly, he had her empathy; she wanted the same thing.

" _She's good, isn't she?"_

Sylvia craned her neck, peering over her shoulder to see Alex strolling out of the doorway; his arms crossed confidently over his chest while he proudly looked over her shoulder and at Sofia.

"I guess."

"Don't you think so?"

"I don't know horses, Alex. So, I can't say."

"Heh, if I didn't know better, you seem a little too _nonchalant_ about that."

"I'm not being any certain way about anything."

"What do you think about her?"

"She's okay."

"Kind of pretty, you know."

"She _is_ pretty." Sylvia agreed.

Alex took the seat beside Sylvia, who looked at him with narrowed eyes as he kicked up his feet in the last lawn chair, crossing his arms behind his head as he watched her with a smug little smirk.

"If you wanted to have a threesome, would she be a part of it?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes, watching Sofia as she returned sarcastically, "That's _literally_ the only thing you can think about, isn't it?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Well, in your case, it kinda is."

"In your case, it was hard for me to think about anything else."

Sylvia looked at him, crossing her arms on the table as she turned her attention completely on him and forgot about the rider in the field.

"You don't have anyone else to pester?" She asked coolly.

"Not at the moment."

"Go bother someone else."

"Ask me nicely, and I might."

" _Please_ go bother some other fucking person. And leave me alone."

"Nah."

"I thought you said you would go if I asked nicely."

"I said 'I might'." Alex snickered, grinning at her. "I thought maybe you could use the company. You seemed lonely out here."

"I'm not lonely."

"Well, you were alone."

"'Loneliness' and 'solitude' are two different things. Until you started bothering me, I was happy with the latter."

"I guess you're missing your little boyfriend, huh?"

" _Husband_." Sylvia corrected, holding up her left hand. "I'm married. Remember? But why would you. You seem more than happy to forget whatever it is that doesn't hold your interest."

"Not unless it comes crawling back."

"I didn't do any crawling."

"I wasn't necessarily talking about _you_ , but I like how you think."

"Get the fuck out of my face, Alex."

Alex frowned, saying, "You know I go by 'Rooster' now, right? It's the name I prefer."

"And I would _prefer_ it if you left my fucking face, but, as you can see, we don't always get what we want, huh." Sylvia said, waving him away dismissively, but he remained planted in his seat.

He sat forward, grinning, still.

"Wanna know what I think about this whole egregious expenditure of energy between us?"

"I'm still impressed you know how to use that word in context." Sylvia stated snidely.

"'Egregious'?"

"No. 'Think'."

Alex's frown deepened; but he seemed to regain his sense of patience as he said calmly, "Why don't we have a truce, Sylvia. Huh? You've taken enough jabs at me, and I think I've annoyed you plenty, honestly, without even really trying. We can make the rest of the afternoon somewhat fun, if you'd allow yourself to enjoy it."

Sylvia glared.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She questioned, gesturing to him.

"I don't know what you mean."

"No. Of course, you don't." Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes again. She stood and started walking off the patio, and towards the field. "What the hell was I thinking, trying to explain this complicated thing to you—"

"—Will you stop treating me like I'm a fucking idiot—"

"—Then stop _acting_ like a fucking moron!" Sylvia snapped, turning sharply around.

He met her off the patio, towering over her. She looked back at him, unaffected.

"Look, all I've done is be nice to you," Alex said indignantly.

"And that's supposed to win me over?" Sylvia said coldly.

"Is that what you think I'm trying to do?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"No."

Sylvia sighed deeply, slowly massaging her temples with her thumbs. After sending him a third scowl within the past five minutes, she simply shook her head with another scoff leaving her lips, and proceeded to walk back in the pavilion. Naturally, he followed her.

"Whatever your motives are, Alex, I don't care to know them."

He grabbed her arm, forcing her to come back so she'd stop running away from him. His fingers wrapped tightly around her bicep; once they did, Sylvia wielded back and rightly clocked him in the jaw with her elbow. He reeled back.

He rubbed his jaw angrily: "Why the fuck did you have to hit me!"

"I don't want you touching me!"

"Then stop walking away from me when I'm trying to talk to you."

"That's why I'm walking _away_ from you. To get _away_ from you. So, you'll stop talking to _me_."

"I just want us to be friends—"

"—I don't want us to be friends—"

"—I'd rather have you as my friend than—"

"'Nothing at all'?" Sylvia finished.

He stood on one side of the couch in the living room; she braced herself on the other side. Alex seemed at a loss for words since they'd been taken completely from his mouth; just as he blinked in surprise and a little confusion, Sylvia crossed her arms defensively.

"You're trying to make up for lost time," She told him unhappily. "Trying to make up for all the crap you put me through, and you think that can be done over a weekend? If you think that, then you don't know me at all, because you—more than anyone else—should know me better than that!"

Alex bowed his head, knowingly, guiltily, and he said carefully, "I know...I _know…"_

He walked around the other side of the couch, saying, "I don't know how to fix it, you know. I'm...I'm stupid, you know that, and I know what I did, and that I could've done things differently. I know there's no 'us'…You're married. I get that. But that doesn't mean we can't be friends."

"Yes, it _does_ mean that!"

"Why? It's the past! It's been ten years—you're still angry, clearly, but—"

"There's not a 'but'!" Sylvia snapped. "There's no 'but'. Just because you said 'sorry' doesn't mean you've healed the wound you created! We dated almost a year, Alex. A _year_. Then you fucked me, and left me at the fucking pier, and you didn't give me _any_ explanation. You kept your entire past a secret—"

"—But you said you knew—"

"—I knew because my brother told me!" Sylvia shouted. "Going to jail, getting out, pretending that none of it happened, like you weren't gone for weeks at a time—like an idiot, I was believing any stupid excuse you were handing out that month. You lied to me for _months_! And I _knew_ you were lying to me, and I let you, because I supported you!" (She approached Alex, her stance aggressive, and her nostrils flaring.) "Every fucking 'job' was a 'way out' of Gotham, a way of getting to the top! And it didn't matter who you had to hurt to get there, including _me_." She poked him hard in the chest.

"Is that what this argument is about?" Alex said incredulously. "That's why you're still angry at me?"

"THAT'S WHY I AM STILL ANGRY!" Sylvia screamed; she pushed him; he fell into the coffee table, looking up at her from his back, surprised. "You were _just like_ my father. Every time I wanted to do something—a date, a movie—you _always_ turned it down. Any time you were upset, I'd try to comfort you, but you always shoved me away. And you always talked about leaving Gotham, like it was some fucking wasteland, like what you were getting wasn't good enough, not even me."

Alex slowly stood, barely getting to his feet as he stumbled over the couch; Sylvia's lower lip was quivering, her eyes, however dangerous and glowering, watered.

"I treated you like a king," Sylvia's voice cracked. "I was there for you when _no one else_ was, and how did you repay me?" (She gestured to the current household). "You fucked me, then left me out hanging to dry. Like forgotten laundry. I waited months for you to return, despite what people were telling me— _Months,_ Alex! You didn't come.

"And after all of that, you greet me with some stupid sex comment, acting as if none of that shit took place, trying to buddy up to me, thinking we'll go back to you being a fucking selfish twat while I humbly thank you, just being grateful that some good-looking guy like you even _thought_ about looking at a girl like me? Great thinking, _Rooster._ Good _job_. So fucking smart."

Alex opened his mouth to speak, trying to articulate whatever thoughts were mulling around his noggin, but Sylvia turned away from him. He heard her sniffle, her hand moving up to her face to dry her wet cheek.

For once in his life, Alex was uncertain of his current role. He steadily got to his feet, then awkwardly tried to figure out how to assuage this current predicament. His first instinct was to comfort and hold her, but seeing as how aggressively she'd reacted since trying to grab her arm, Alex decided against it.

"Okay…" He uttered quietly. "I hurt you more than I was aware…clearly..."

Sylvia dropped her hands, turning around to look at him, confused.

"You must hate me a lot—I'm surprised you haven't killed me." Alex said, smiling nervously.

"I don't _hate_ you." She whispered, shaking her head.

"Okay, so you don't wanna kill me...Maybe just a little maim, huh?"

It was clearly a ploy to appeal to her dark sense of humor. Sylvia could see it as he moved closer to her. And, admittedly enough, it was working.

"Maybe a gunshot to the arm or the leg," Alex said, cracking a grin. "One right here, you know?" (He touched his right bicep.) "I'm a bit partial to my left arm, so you know, but it'd be completely up to you. You can shoot my right leg, if you want. Above the knee, though; I'm planning on getting really into soccer one day. Can't be going Varsity with a bum leg, you know?"

Sylvia stared at him, shaking her head incredulously.

"What's your preference, huh?" Alex asked, stepping back with his arms held out to her.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Preference, Sylvie. What's your preference, huh? You're working for the Penguin, 'member? 'The Lark'...You're basically a hitman yourself, right?"

Sylvia put her hands on her hips, looking at him pointedly: "What are you doing?"

"We're just talking."

"You're changing the subject."

"Guilty," sighed Alex, although he still smiled a little.

He ran a hand through his perfectly combed platinum blonde roots and gently massaged the growing bruise around his chiseled jaw.

"You've gotten a lot more spunky since I last saw you, you know," Alex confessed, grinning. "More aggressive, more stronger—"

"— 'More strong' or 'stronger', not both—"

"—Thanks for the English lesson, _Professor_." Alex said, slightly annoyed.

A moment after, he lost his 'cool' edge, and appeared taken aback. He rubbed the back of his head uncertainly, saying, "Sylvia."

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question."

"Well, you're going to, no matter what, so you might as well."

Alex said curiously, "Well, it just got me thinking, you know."

"About?"

"You were never so assertive. You were always so much more…I don't know...laid back. Was I... Was I the reason you're like this now?" asked Alex, gesturing to her current disposition.

Sylvia looked at him with a small smile and said softly, "No. After you, I dated a few more assholes, and then I started working for Fish Mooney. What came from that and working under Falcone and Maroni—and everything in between—molded me into what I am now."

Alex said sheepishly, "I guess I started the cycle."

"I guess you did."

"Goddamn, I'm such a jerk."

"Well, you _are_ ," Sylvia agreed. "But in hindsight, there are _worse_ guys than you out there. I should know. I dated some of them."

Alex stepped towards her, about a foot in front of her. She watched him carefully, her eyes on him like a dog with an unfamiliar mailman. She was cornered against the back of the couch; her backside leaned against it. After a second, he rubbed his jaw again and he started laughing.

"Where'd you learn to punch a guy like that?"

"I was taught."

"By who?"

"No one you know." Sylvia returned honestly.

"You got a good elbow punch there."

"I know. That's why I did it to you."

An awkward pause followed.

"Does he appreciate everything you do for him?" Alex asked quietly.

"Who?"

"Your boyf—your husband."

"Yes."

"What's he done for you?"

"He's done plenty."

Alex shrugged saying, "I robbed a lot of banks for you, you know. Lots of 'em. One time, I did five in one week. Like a lot of money came from it. I got some things for you with that money, you seemed to like it enough. What's that guy done for you, huh?"

"You _really_ need to know?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I need to make sure he's not making the same stupid fucking mistake that I made. You know?"

"I _do_ know."

"So, what's he done?"

Sylvia said calmly, "Theodore Galavan. He used to be the mayor of Gotham—was all over the news as 'Azrael'. Do you know that?"

"Of course."

"Remember when he died? The first time?"

"Yeah—Allegedly, Penguin killed him."

"Allegedly. That's what my brother, Oswald, and I told the cops. Do you know who _really_ killed Galavan?"

"Yeah, Penguin—"

"—Me."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Me. I did it. I killed him. I was ready to go to Blackgate. I've been to Juvie plenty of times, so I figured 'what the hell'. What's one more crime time. But Jim and Oswald…" (She chuckled.) "Oswald lied for me, took the credit for killing Galavan. He went to Arkham for me."

"I didn't know that."

"You wouldn't have known."

"Oh, right."

"Oswald is willing to go to Arkham for me. Even Blackgate. He's willing to kill anyone who tries to hurt me, and—unlike _some—_ he's not afraid to die for the people he cares about." Sylvia said, raising her chin, feeling a little more than proud of Oswald. "And he trusts me...with all his dirty secrets, _including_ the things that I might not be too happy about. For instance, before I left, he recently told me that he's been torturing a couple of my employees—"

"—Jesus!"

"It's fine; they have the week off with paid leave." Sylvia said dismissively.

Alex let out a breathy laugh, amused and impressed: "Man, had I known you were so accepting of all this shit, I might've done things differently in the past. Guess I really _am_ an idiot."

Sylvia shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

* * *

The last meeting of the day. The last one to take place before the actual event.

Sylvia was looking forward to it.

To commemorate a joyous occasion to tying up all the loose ends for what was surely going to be an unforgettable party, Sylvia joined the Falcones for dinner. Sofia and Carmine had dinner out on the patio—it was almost eight o'clock by the time the steak had been thoroughly roasted, the vegetables sautéed in a sort of creamy Alfredo sauce. Once the plates were placed in front of them, and their wine glasses refilled, Falcone raised his own for a toast.

Sylvia did the same; Sofia cracked a grin, holding her glass up as well.

"To a job well done!" Falcone said happily.

"A simple toast—Love it," Sylvia chuckled, and their glasses clinked.

After each dinner guest drank to it, Sofia looked at Sylvia momentarily, a small gaze of vague interest before she started cutting her own steak with the rugged knives provided by their homely chef. Falcone glanced between the two women with a subtle pique of amusement. For a minute or two, the only sounds made clear were the chinks of silverware on platters, and the waves crashing against the shore a distance away.

"I'm a bit disappointed in you, Lark," Falcone said smoothly; although, because this statement had abruptly broken the serene silence, it made both women jump.

Startled, Sylvia blinked up at him: "I'm sorry?"

"Well, from what the papers and, particularly, Mrs. James made you out to be in the media, I was expecting a little bit more of a frenzy." He admitted, grinning. "During Penguin's mayoral campaign, the papers referred to you as a 'piranha' of sorts. Once there was blood in the water..." Falcone indicated the magnetism of such a territorial, predatory fish by gesticulating quickly with his hands in a circle of ferocious speed.

Sofia smirked, adding, "A 'piranha' might be too robust of a word to describe Sylvia, Daddy. I think Mrs. James was just being ostentatious."

"She was being a bitch." Sylvia stated apathetically, drinking from her wine glass a second after. "What paper coined me as a piranha?"

Sofia answered promptly, "Gotham Gazette."

"Well, that makes a lot of sense. One of Jim's exes is a reporter—not exactly a woman who holds back."

"I expect none of them do." Falcone chortled. At Sylvia's questionable expression, he explained, "His exes, I mean."

Sylvia sighed, "His exes, I can tolerate. I'm in business with one" (She referred to Barbara) "and I like the other one enough…Obviously, since I've been spending the weekend with your entire family." (She smiled kindly at Sofia.) "Not that I mind."

"I'm glad to hear you've been enjoying yourself," Falcone said easily. "I was worried in the beginning."

"Because of the error with the hotel?"

"Yes, that, but primarily due to the existing past relationship you had with one of my associates. Correct me if I'm wrong, but things seemed to have mellowed out between the two of you. No broken furniture at least, and from what I've been told, there weren't any disturbances last night." Falcone said amusedly.

"I've learned to tolerate stupidity." Sylvia said lightly. "A skill I've learned over the past couple of years. With a few more years, I might just master the damn thing."

"The stupidity of men regularly outweighs the measure of one's skill to tolerate it. Each person has a breaking point; I've had _mine_."

Sofia leaned into her, adding, "He's not exaggerating…"

"He's not?" Sylvia questioned, smirking.

"No, he is not. When I was ten years old, I once came home from school early; I had the _joy_ of watching my father throw a man twice his size out of the window of his office." Sofia said with a playful wrinkle of her nose.

"What did he do wrong?"

"He missed his payment." Sofia answered for her father. "By three days." (She held up her thumb, index, and middle finger.) "Granted, the man was a bit of an idiot...Tried paying off Daddy with a chicken."

"I _love_ chickens," Falcone said, with a stern smile. "As a _hobby_. I refused for them to be used as bargaining chips."

"What if I offered you a rooster? Would that have been subject to payment?" Sylvia teased.

"If it's the one I have now, I'd hardly consider the debt repaid."

"Remind me to give you a peacock instead."

"If you're considering offering me a bird in substitution for money, Lark, you might as well hand over a swan. Magnificent beasts…They're much too proud."

"I don't like swans." Sofia said, crinkling her nose in bias. "I like doves."

"No," Falcone corrected. "You prefer pigeons."

"I like the white ones, Daddy. _Those_ are 'doves."

Sylvia leaned forward into their debate and said playfully, "I'm partial to penguins."

Sofia and Falcone rolled their eyes and the former uttered, "Of course, you _would_ be."

Sylvia grinned broadly, unashamed, and shared an amused circle of laughter with them.

"How's your steak?" asked Falcone curiously. "I wasn't quite sure how you take it."

Sylvia shrugged: "I like medium rare."

"It's well done, in this case."

"Still pretty good."

Sylvia finished her wine.

"We have more Merlot in the kitchen, if you'd like another," Sofia offered kindly.

"I'll call the staff," said Falcone.

"No need—I'll get it." Sofia said quickly. She offered to take their plates; gratefully, Falcone and Sylvia handed them to her. "I'll be right back!"

As she departed, Sylvia watched her go.

"Such a sweet girl," She commented, glancing at Falcone.

"Most people find it hard to believe that she's my daughter."

"Can't say why. I see the resemblance."

"She looks more like her mother," said Falcone thoughtfully.

"But she acts more like _you_."

At the comment, Falcone looked at Sylvia differently. His soft eyes hardened; his stern features that were otherwise absent from their earlier pleasant banter returned.

"She's been nothing but candid throughout your visit," Falcone said coolly. "What makes you think she'd—"

"I meant no offense," Sylvia said quickly.

"What do you think of my daughter, Lark?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you had to describe her mannerisms to the police, or predict what she may do in the future…hypothetically speaking, what would you say?"

Sylvia snickered, "That's a weird thing to ask."

"I'm curious."

"I don't see why you're asking _me_. I just met her."

Falcone leaned forward. A simple stance, but one that made Sylvia feel less inclined to snigger again. A move so subtle, but intimidating.

"Indulge me. Tell me what you see." He said, gesturing to his daughter in the other room.

Sylvia said quietly, "Why?"

"When you accepted Miss Thompkins' dinner invitation, you and I had a talk about your talent. Do you remember that conversation?"

"Yes."

"You said you were certain that you were losing your touch. Because you were unable to detect your umbrella boy's ulterior motives, his _true_ personality. What was his name again?"

Sylvia paused before she allowed his name to pass her lips: "Demetri."

"Yes, that was his name." Falcone muttered. He looked at Sylvia sternly: "You were certain your ability was slipping, because he was able to deceive you; this deception led to the unfortunate events leading up to the unforgivable death of your daughter—"

"—Sir, with all due respect, I'd rather not—"

"—and it caused _everyone_ around you to doubt your judgment, including your husband."

Sylvia winced.

"True or false?" Falcone said softly.

"True."

"Some time has passed, and yet, there's _still_ a part of you that wonders if you're still truly able to read people. A talent, you've missed. A skill, you've admitted to me, included, that you're not so sure is still within your possession. Correct?"

She nodded.

"I'd like to give you a gift, Mrs. Cobblepot. Not included in our arrangement, in our deal. A token of appreciation for your efforts in arranging this engagement party for one of my children."

"Not necessary."

"Fine then," said Falcone generously. "Consider it a belated wedding present."

Sylvia smiled in spite of her humiliation: "Sir, I don't see why you would do this. Any of this."

"Maybe it's because I see a little of myself in Penguin, and out of all my possible successors, he was probably one of the best suited for the job of providing what I could not in the end, and it's something that Gotham _needs_ in order for her to thrive."

"And that is?"

"Stability."

"Ah."

"You support him; you're his strength at all times, and his weapon when needed." Falcone said admirably. "At the same dinner, if you remember, we talked about my wife." He looked Sylvia over, and said softly, "My, how much you act like her."

"Sir..."

He interrupted her: "I'll give you a test, if you'd like to see whether or not your skill to read people has been lost on you. I know my daughter well—I know what she is capable of."

Speak of the devil: Sofia came back out to the patio, sitting in the chair across from Falcone and Sylvia, peering at them with a subtle smile of intrigue as the two others surveyed her with knowing and substance to their gaze.

"Good timing, dear," said Falcone gently. "Lark was just about to tell me what she sees in you."

"Oh?" Sofia said interestedly. "I can't wait to hear."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm on pins and needles."

Sylvia glanced at the two family members before she leaned forward and said politely, "Really, guys, I'm not sure if either of you want to hear my opinion."

"Is it unflattering?" Sofia asked.

Sylvia shrugged. "It can be perceived to be."

"Well, now you've piqued my interest. Tell me what you see. And please," Sofia eagerly gestured to her, "don't feel like you have to hold back."

Sylvia looked at Falcone for any objection; he gave none.

With a sigh of resignation, Sylvia spoke: "Sofia Falcone, I think you are probably one of the nicest people in the country side I've ever met, if Falcones were the only population. I think people generally perceive you to be non-threatening since you ride horses and you speak professionally and polite; you've shown me nothing but kindness, but I honestly believe you're just as capable of bad as you are of good."

Falcone watched Sylvia with an unwavering gaze of indifference. Sofia simply cocked her head to the side, interested.

"You look like you can be a great ally," Sylvia continued, "but if the tables are turned, you'd become one hell of a fucking cunt to the people who've crossed you or your family."

Sofia blinked at Sylvia's foul language; Falcone seemed unaffected, if not expectant, of such use.

"And," Sylvia continued, "if there ever came a time when you and I were at odds, you'd likely try to win my affections since you'd perceive me to be a worthy adversary—because while I may be smarter than your staff, I feel like you'd be more on Oswald or your father's level when it comes to cunning and intellect, and you'd find some way of manipulating me; and you'd be successful in doing so."

Sofia looked a bit taken aback by the unexpected compliment, while Falcone was just generally amused.

"That's not the reason why you'd try to make an ally out of me, though." Sylvia added. "You'd try to make an alliance with me because my loyalty will put the allegiance of everyone under your payroll to shame."

"Why is that?" asked Sofia.

Sylvia said curiously, "Why is that—what?"

Sofia said lightly, "I mean, why would your loyalty be more profitable than another ally who may be smarter, quicker, stronger, and harder to manipulate?"

Falcone answered for Sylvia: "The unyielding loyalty and love of one soldier is far more priceless than the emotional, physical, or mental strength of ten armies. It can't be bought, nor can it be damaged by pharmacology, taken down by weapons, or abused by any unpleasant uses of torture. Met with resistance, the soldier's loyalty strengthens; it _hardens_. And, when the opportunity presents itself, that type of loyalty provides the contender with an unmatched weapon for vengeance and destruction."

He looked at his daughter, adding, "That is why I say you are not ready for Gotham. You don't understand that." He added pointedly, "Not many do."

Sylvia cleared her throat, feeling uncomfortable. As though she might've just been placed in the center of a debate that might've lingered between father and daughter for the past couple of years. While Sofia looked more offended by Falcone's subtle disparage than by Sylvia's profiling, Falcone stood; so naturally, did Sylvia.

"A gift to you, Lark." He said appreciatively. He took her hand, and kissed the back of it spontaneously. "Good news, actually. You _haven't_ lost your talent. In fact, I believe it's come back in full force."

Sylvia smiled gratefully: "Thanks. From you, that means a lot. It's a shame I've had to go through all of that shit in order to get it back."

"Well, there's a saying, which I think you'll appreciate."

"And that is?"

"'You'll be happy,' says life. 'But, first, I will make you strong'."

Sylvia beamed: "You're right. I _do_ appreciate that."

Sofia began to speak to Falcone, but Sylvia felt her phone ringing suddenly.

"Sorry..." She uttered an apology; she'd started to silence it, but that was until she saw that it was Oswald calling her. "Fuck…Give me a sec."

She quickly left the patio, standing in the doorway.

She answered it briskly, "Oz, what—"

"I apologize, dear, but it's not your husband you hear."

Her eyes widened; her heart picked up a beat. She glanced behind her at the Falcones, both of whom glanced at one another with concern when Sylvia's own expression changed to worry and fear.

"Darling, darling, oh, lady fair—are you still on the phone over there?"

"Tetch." Sylvia said coldly. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"You have the same impertinent responses as your brother."

"My brother? What about my brother—What have you done to him—and what about Oswald—"

"Your brother is on the floor in the hospital," Tetch said carelessly. "He's under _quite_ the spell."

"What the _fuck_ are you going on about! Stop talking in fucking rhymes, goddamn it, and tell me what you did to my family!" Sylvia shouted, slamming the phone a couple of times on the counter in frustration.

"Listen to what I have to say—otherwise your _dear_ husband won't see the light of day."

Sylvia frowned, and leaned against the counter in the kitchen: "What do you mean by that? Is he hurt? What did you do?"

"He's fine for now." Tetch said with a small giggle. "We're all having dinner—at the _Founder's Dinner_. About to have some steak and potatoes, but the dinner is in pause—how I hate those."

"Fucking idiot, _you're_ the one who put the dinner on 'pause'—"

"—Stop interrupting me!"

Sylvia bit her tongue, hoping to quell her furious retort.

Tetch continued: "Your husband is fine; he's breathing, dear. For now, you'll have to start thinking, a little clear. Do you know what my sister was capable of? What she could do with just a little bit of her blood? That's what the people will find out tonight, tonight's the night, Gotham will get such a fright."

"What the hell…" Sylvia muttered, rubbing her face. "What are you going to do those people, Tetch? Huh? What, is this because of what my brother did?"

"He killed my sister—"

"—No, _you_ did, you fucking asshole! With your fucking perversion and molestation, that's what did her in. She happily threw herself onto a pike because of that, and you're _still_ trying to convince yourself that _Jim_ had anything to do with it?" Sylvia said angrily. "Haven't you done enough to my family? You shot Vale already, who the fuck are you after now!"

"You, my dear."

"Why me?"

"You're Jim's sister. I'd like to see what _my_ sister's blood would unleash in _Jim's_."

Sylvia frowned: "You're insane."

"Come to the Founder's Dinner. _Now._ Tell not a person, not a cop, not a soul. Otherwise, the head of everyone in this room, including your husband's, will _roll_."

Sylvia nodded: "Fine, I'm coming. But I'm down South. It'll take me a couple of hours."

"Then you better hurry, hurry on. Because you know, I won't wait long. And if you take too much time, your feathered love will be singing a song…"

"Alright! Fuck, I'm coming!" Sylvia snapped.

Tetch hung up.

Alex, having heard the commotion, came to her aid, looking concerned and worried.

"What happened!" He questioned.

Sylvia ignored him, and strode to the patio. At her sudden entrance, Sofia and Falcone stood immediately.

"I have to go back to Gotham. Tetch, and danger, and something about songs." Sylvia said quickly, gesticulating madly.

"Understood. Go." Falcone said, dismissing her. "I'll send a driver with your things."

"Thank you, thank you…. Again, thanks for the dinner, and Sofia—no hard feelings." Sylvia hurriedly left the pavilion, practically ripping her car door open.

Suddenly, before she'd driven off, her passenger door opened, and became occupied. She stared obliviously at the intruder.

"You said Tetch is there!" Alex said, gesturing quickly to the dashboard.

"Get the hell out of my car!"

"You're not going there alone!"

"He said for me to go alone!"

"You _can't_ though!" Alex said, locking his door. "If you go alone, Tetch is going to kill you, and everyone else."

"I've dealt with Tetch before—At this point, he _only_ wants me. No one else."

"Well, you're not going alone."

"You're wrong: Get. Out!"

"You're not even going to tell your brother—"

"—From what Tetch has said, I doubt he's able to help anyway—"

"—Call the cops, Sylvia!"

"I can't! If backup comes, he's going to hurt Oswald! Now...please…GET OUT OF MY CAR!"

"NO!" Alex snapped.

"If you go there with me, Tetch is going to kill people!"

"And if you go in alone without any backup, he's going to kill _you_!"

"I DON'T CARE!"

"WELL, I FUCKING DO!"

Sylvia growled, throwing her hands up in the air.

"FINE!" She shouted. She peeled out of the driveway. "Open the glovebox, there's a gun in there."

"I _have_ a gun."

"Any bullets in that fuckin' thing?"

"Some."

"Well, take _that_ gun. It's full."

"But I like _my gun_!"

"ALEX!"

"Okay, _fine_! I'll take it." Alex said quickly, trying to shield off her anger. "God."

"And put your fucking seatbelt on!"

* * *

Jervis Tetch sat at the head of the table, which occupied about ten other guests, including the head of Catholicism, a four-star General (who was surprisingly useless in any given hostile situation), and the Mayor of Gotham, who was also surprisingly docile. Then again, the latter was trying to prove to Gotham that he was a great politician, not a barbaric gangster…

Tetch had just gotten off the phone with a frustrated First Lady, and he grinned only to himself at the outcome of how quickly she'd responded to his threats. Naturally, Oswald Cobblepot wasn't too thrilled; he'd heard the threats himself, and he sat on Tetch's right side with a look of absolute revulsion and murder on his face.

"She's on her way." Tetch said happily.

He glanced at Oswald, who glared back at him.

Ironically, Tetch said, "I'm actually genuinely surprised to see that my remarks about your unstable marriage hadn't led to a divorce."

Oswald stared at him incredulously: " _What_ are you talking about?"

Tetch peered at the mayor's overall contemptuous demeanor. Brilliant blue-green eyes glowering back at him in full hatred and murderous intent; his hands balled up into clenching fists which pulsed as the idea of strangulation or gutting became more of an action than a full-fledged theory; and how the mayor was somehow restraining himself from the compulsion to wring his neck after the vile threats Tetch had spewed over the phone to his lady love. Quite the man.

"Surely, she must've told you." Tetch mused. "The words exchanged between the first lady and me were about your dead daughter, you see."

Oswald frowned, and a gut-wrenching twist pulled at his heart at the ugly mention of Csilla.

"Guilt is a funny thing," said Tetch. "It makes one's grief explode, their self-loathing. Sylvia Cobblepot...She has plenty of it. Guilt, I mean."

"How would _you_ know." Oswald said spitefully.

"She told me, oh yes, she did. How she was certain you'd leave her because of what happened to your kid. I agreed with her; told her it was so. The idea of the marriage falling apart; it was my idea, you know."

"Unbelievable."

"I'm happy to see you were able to forgive her."

"I'm not talking to you about any of this."

"Is it still painful?"

"Talking to you? Oh, _absolutely_." Oswald hissed.

Tetch chuckled, "I can certainly see how you and our dear Lark are similar."

"Well, I guess you'll get your chance to see the ways in which we are not," Oswald threatened. "What makes you think that she won't deliver your death sentence the moment she comes through those doors!"

Intrigued, Tetch said interestedly, "Do you think she'd make my death a quick one?"

"I highly doubt it."

"Am I to guess, since we're discussing the contrast, that you might?"

Oswald grinned sadistically, saying, "You'd die slow."

"So," Tetch said, confusedly, "What, may I ask, would be the difference?"

"She'd talk the entire time."

"Ah."

"It's something she and Victor Zsasz have in common. Maybe you'd like to chat about it with _him_. It'd grant me a great amount of relief."

"Am I boring you, Mr. Mayor?"

"At an alarming rate, even." Oswald answered practically, his sarcastic smile following soon after.

"Well, you might as well enjoy the dinner and wine; Lark's trip back to Gotham is going to take some time."

"And what, pray tell, are we to do until then?" Oswald asked grumpily.

"We can exchange pleasantries as guests may do at such a profound and luxurious dining." Tetch said happily, gesturing to his own minions who came by to refill the wine glasses.

Notably, there was only one glass that was purposely left untouched. The one that was solely meant for Oswald's intended. Seeing this was so, Oswald glared ominously at Tetch, who returned the murderous expression with a subtle proud one of his own.

"What _exactly_ do you have planned for when Sylvia gets here. Considering, of course, that she doesn't wipe that smile off your face the moment she walks through those doors." Oswald managed coolly, although he wanted nothing more than to set the illusionist on fire.

"I'll have her drink this glass of wine. After that, my vengeance will come in time."

"And what 'vengeance' will come of this?"

Tetch quirked an eyebrow: "You're interested to see what part your Love will play?"

"I think that's obvious. _Don't you_?"

Tetch chuckled, "She and James Gordon are the same; the same in spirit, the same in the game. If my calculations are correct, she'll become more of a murderess than the countess she has been perceived to be...in the newspapers, interviews, or on TV."

Oswald scoffed, "Sylvia isn't 'perceived' to be anything short of a 'countess'. Have you been hiding under a rock this entire time?"

"She and Jim are one in the same. Killer instincts are part of the game. With her strength and vision, she'll grant the _entire_ army such an opposition. In the grand scheme of things, it'll be a nice show…just to see how far our murderess will go."

Oswald rolled his eyes, saying, "Sylvia and Jim are nothing alike. Not in _that_ context, anyway."

"Clearly, you would know."

"I _would_ know."

"Gee, Mr. Mayor. Such venom. I can clearly see I caught you on a bad day. Perhaps that is why you're being particularly difficult at the moment."

"If that's what it takes for you to stop speaking in those incessant, arbitrary rhymes, _so_ be it."

Tetch giggled.

* * *

Running five red lights, mounting the curb of an exit on the highway, and cutting off a semi-truck had only been the small legs of the journey back to Gotham; during this time, Alex held onto the car seat with frigid fingers and white knuckles.

Meanwhile, Sylvia's eyes darkened as she crossed over one of the bridges to Gotham.

"What's your plan for when you get inside!" Alex questioned, his voice wavering in terror.

"Kill Tetch."

"He has people there, probably."

"I'll kill them too."

"They might have guns."

"Then _you_ kill them," Sylvia snapped, glowering at him. "You're a fucking hitman—you can shoot _them_ while I'm killing Tetch."

"You don't know how many there are!"

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!"

"Kinda matters," Alex muttered.

Sylvia and Alex grunted when the car had lifted off the pavement with only two wheels on the ground as she whipped it around the corner, and they both grimaced as the back of the trunk suddenly popped open, and the engine let out a groan.

"You're going to kill us before we even get there!"

"Shut up, Alex!"

"What makes you think Tetch hasn't already killed everyone at that dinner?"

"Because he wants _me_. He blames Jim for what happened to his sister. Obviously shooting Vale wasn't enough for this fucker; he wants to see Jim in as much pain as possible, so Tetch wants _me_."

"In what way?"

"The killing type of way, probably. I don't know."

"Does he like you or something?"

"Who doesn't."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Some people in Gotham are attracted to me, Alex. Now's not the time to be jealous."

The car screeched to a halt in front of the building where the dinner was taking place. Alex jumped out of the passenger seat, and he kissed the pavement before straightening to his full height, modestly brushing off his leather jacket with a flourish. He pulled the gun out of his pocket that Sylvia had given him just as she rounded the car to meet up with him.

"You know there's a good chance that we might die in here." Alex reminded.

"I'm aware."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not really. Does it bother _you_?"

"Yeah, kinda. Kinda bothers me."

"Then you might wanna stay out here and keep watch."

"I'm not gonna do that."

"Then you better grow a fucking pair and get ready to use that gun," Sylvia warned.

Alex grinned playfully, then he did what she said. As they inched towards the building, he moved behind her; clearly, she knew where she was going. As they crept up the stairs, Sylvia remained low, slowly ascending. She heard him let out of a soft whistle.

"What the hell are you doing back there?"

"Just admiring your back…" He murmured. "I've got a great view, you know."

"I _do_ know."

"That was kinda hot what you said back there."

"What?"

"About me growing a pair. Kinda hot, you know."

"Ugh— _not_ the time for this shit."

"I know." Alex said sheepishly. "It's just a side of you I didn't get to see."

"Well, you got to see it only _once,_ you mean." Sylvia reminded. "Remember? We only did it once."

"Coulda done it a few more times."

"Yeah, well, whose fucking fault is that. Hmm, I _wonder._ "

"All right, let's not hash out that argument again!" Alex hissed.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. She and Alex stood, armed back-to-back.

"On three," Alex told her.

"What, you think _you're_ taking charge?"

"Hey! I've been taking charge since we got out of the car."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck _you_."

"We'll go on three when _I_ say," Sylvia whispered harshly.

"Why _you_?"

"Because it's my fucking husband inside this fucking room and I don't need you fucking up!"

Alex shrugged: "Fair point. Fine. You count to three."

"One… two…"

"Wait!"

" _What_ now?"

"Are we going _on_ three or before three, or right _after_ three."

"Right _after_ three."

"Hey—I'm just making sure we're on the same page."

"We _are_ on the same page. Stop fucking talking. You're making me lose my concentration!" Sylvia snapped.

Just as she said so, the doors opened. Tetch stood in front of them, grinning wildly while the two dumdees that were with him the last time Sylvia and Tetch had their confrontation stood by him again with their guns readied to fire. Seeing as they'd not had the sneak-attack in hand, Sylvia glared at Alex, who smiled apologetically.

"Take those." Tetch told his minions.

Both addlepated gentlemen took the guns from Alex and Sylvia, both of whom stared down the minions with little appreciation for their obedience. Tetch fingered towards the table's direction at which sat all of the more famous peeps, including—

"Oswald!" Sylvia exclaimed in relief.

She pushed Tetch aside, and ran to the dinner table; Oswald stood to meet her, and they embraced. She cradled Oswald's face between her palms, and kissed him. Hard. He returned it, but the immediate happiness that had existed was now dwindling as Tetch moved towards the table.

Alex was dragged forward as well, and forced to take a seat on the floor.

"Well, well, Lark." Tetch sighed. "You brought back-up. After I explicitly said—"

Sylvia turned from Oswald to dangerously peer at Tetch: "I didn't bring 'back-up'."

"He's not a cop?" Tetch questioned skeptically, glancing down at Alex, who looked flattered by the assumption.

"No. He's my ex, but—"

"Oh!" Tetch said happily, his hands flying upward. "An ex! You brought yet another hostage for me to leverage; well, such a sweet greeting, such a sweet gift, I should offer you a beverage."

The cup that had been scarcely touched was picked up by Tetch, who gravely handed it over to Sylvia, who glanced at it warily.

"Drink, my dear. Drink." He said all too eagerly.

"Sylvia, don't—" Oswald began.

"You! Pipe down!" Tetch ordered, pointing at Oswald.

The mayor was then grabbed by both dumdees and forcibly pushed down so he occupied his seat once more, however involuntarily.

"The fate of everyone here rests in your delicate hands, Lark," Tetch narrated shallowly. "A sip, a gulp, a taste if you will. Be it a luxurious brew, or driest swill. Drink up, or if you don't—I'll kill everyone in this room."

"That didn't rhyme," Alex cared to note.

Oswald and Sylvia glanced down at the alleged hitman, annoyed. Tetch joined them in that glare.

"You're not a part of this, _are you_ ," Tetch said irritably. "You just came to protect the old flame, haven't you? Indeed, to you, she's the one that 'got away', the one you likely will never get back. Trust me..." He grinned knowingly at the couple with a leering, smug smile, adding, "The two of them stay together, no _matter_ the cost."

"Enough!" Oswald hissed. Even as he aggressively tried to bat away at the malcontents restraining him from intervening to save Sylvia, he was left to helplessly remain seated.

Alex frowned, starting to stand.

"Mr. Tetch," said Alex confidently. "You are a vile man! A hack! A—"

"Shoot him now!" Tetch snapped irately.

" _No! Don't_!" Sylvia and Alex shouted simultaneously.

Tetch flashed a toothy grin at Sylvia, saying, "Well, well, well…a plea for the safety of an ex-lover who is not currently the beholder of your heart. Seems like you and James Gordon share a little more than what the Mayor or I were aware."

"You said you wouldn't hurt _anyone_ ," Sylvia reminded fiercely. "Not if I came, not if I drank this fucking thing." (She held the glass in her hand pointedly.) "You're a man of your word, aren't you, Tetch?"

"A man of my word, indeed. Just as long as you are a woman of _action_."

"Fine, then. But you let everyone go. You let them go first, and _then_ I will drink…What is this? Wine? Hopefully, a Riesling?" Sylvia asked, glancing at the other dinner guests arbitrarily for an answer.

"Let the others go? No…No. You must drink first, and then I'll say when the guests can go."

Sylvia frowned. She glanced at Oswald, who shook his head. Alex did the same.

"You won't harm _any_ of them." Sylvia told Tetch sternly. "Not by bullet, or knife, or whatever else your stupid little brain may come up with. You won't hurt or kill _anyone_ in this room, no matter what."

"You have my word, dear Lark. My word."

"Not that it fucking matters in this goddamn city." Sylvia muttered. She brought the glass to her lips. Slowly, she began tilting it.

"GLASSES DOWN! GLASSES DOWN!"

The GCPD suddenly swarmed. Captain Barnes tackled Tetch to the ground, and Sylvia quickly did as the leader demanded. Oswald pulled Sylvia to him, and Alex, who was clumsily getting to his feet, made a point to stand just in front of her as Tetch was being beaten silly. Barnes seemed unable to help himself; that was until the other officers intervened and arrested Tetch on sight.

When the chaos ended, Sylvia happily hugged Oswald, who welcomed it with relief. She kissed him passionately, relieved that this night ended positively but also because she'd missed him so much.

"I missed you too, Pigeon," he whispered softly.

The guests were briefed by the police, sent home without another word. As the police made their rounds, Oswald and Sylvia were speaking in low volumes and then not at all just as Alex approached the two of them.

She glanced between both men.

Her current lover and husband meeting her first boyfriend and ex.

Well, this was fun.

"Mayor Cobblepot," greeted Alex civilly. He held out his hand. "It's honor to meet you, sir...or…shit, do you prefer 'Penguin'?"

"Either." Oswald answered briskly. He gestured to him: "You must be Alexander Beals."

"Rooster," Alex corrected.

"No."

Alex raised his eyebrows at Oswald's sudden rejection, but he politely smiled at Sylvia, who shrugged carelessly. Like she'd expected his rejection just as much. Alex offered his hand for a shake, and Oswald simply glanced at him, annoyed. Then, curiously, he turned to Sylvia, who returned the gaze readily.

"Sylvia, I…"

"Enough said." Sylvia said, holding her hands up, smirking. "I figured this was coming."

Oswald grinned at her instantaneous understanding; she leaned into him, kissing his ear, whispering, "Be _nice_."

"Not a chance."

"Hmm. I'll be in the car. Probably popping a valium."

"Drink it with water."

"Naturally. Love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too." Oswald returned.

He watched her leave the room; Alex turned, doing the same. Just as she was gone, Alex turned to Oswald, but he was a bit startled to see that the Mayor was glaring at him. Almost murderously. Like he'd been glaring at Tetch.

"Why are you here?" Oswald questioned.

"I was worried—"

"—You came as her form of back-up."

"Yes. Because I was worried."

"Did she want you with her?"

"Dude," Alex scoffed (Oswald stared at him) "She tried to push me out of her car halfway down the road, but the thing is, she _needed_ someone to come with her. As protection."

"Ah. I see. And you took it upon yourself to substitute yourself in that role?"

"I'm not a substitution for anything, _Mister_ Mayor." Alex managed through gritted teeth. "She would've come here unarmed—"

"—No, she would not have—"

"—Unguarded—"

"—Very unlikely—"

"—And she would've let her emotions get the best of her—"

"Wrong!" Oswald hushed, cutting Alex off in mid-sentence. The harsh tone he used did more than just silence Alex; the latter was startled, looking down at Oswald, who glared at him.

He smiled sarcastically, saying, "You don't know _anything_ about Sylvia. _Nothing_. In any given situation, she is always armed, always guarded, and, yes," (Oswald gesticulated the matter with a small affluence.) "While she may be manipulated by her own impulses, she's very clear-headed, when it's warranted."

Alex frowned: "You're acting like you got something to prove."

"I don't know why you came all the way to Gotham from the little cave you've been hiding in for years, but don't think for a moment that your interference in this travesty is going to introduce you into Sylvia's life once again," Oswald threatened.

"What, what, you think I'm afraid of you?" Alex challenged, stepping a little closer to Oswald.

Alex was taller than Oswald. He had a foot and two inches on him.

"Perhaps not." Oswald said coolly. "And honestly, I don't care."

"Nah, I think you might be afraid of _me_ ," Alex chuckled. "A little man like you—yeah you got the jitters, got the guys and, yeah, you've got the girl, but what's gonna happen when you don't have any of that, huh? You're the Penguin, but I'm the Rooster, and there's only enough room in a hen house for _one_ rooster."

"Oh, well, _my_ apologies. I had no idea." Oswald said sarcastically. "You might want to let Sylvia in on _that_ tidbit of information. I'm sure she'll want to know."

"She already knows. She _knows_."

Oswald sighed, rolling his eyes. He moved to step aside. Alex took a step in that same direction. And, once more, he and Oswald were at odds again.

"You're vexing me." Oswald told him pointedly.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"So, what? What are you gonna do about it?"

"Nothing, for the moment."

"And what if I did something?"

"You won't," Oswald told him assuredly.

The comment made Alex stutter, allowing Oswald to sidle away and walk past him. He stopped, turning to look at Alex, who did the same, although he peered at him with confusion.

"It's a little disheartening, young man."

"What."

"You have some foolish idea that you and Sylvia have a future together," Oswald said cynically.

"You're scared there might be?"

"Scared? No. In fact, I'm not even worried."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes, Mr. Beals."

"Why not?"

"Because of what I know."

"And what do _you_ possibly know?" Alex questioned ironically.

Oswald stepped towards him, looking up at the hitman with little intimidation.

He said coolly, "Do you have any idea how long it takes for Sylvia to _finally_ stop holding a grudge, no matter the significance of its source?"

Alex held his head high, but he frowned deeply.

"It can take _months_. For you," Oswald said softly, "I imagine it'll take _years_ before she finally sees you as anything more than a nuisance, then _maybe_ a friend, if you're in her good graces. For that, you have my pity." He smiled in spite of himself, tapping Alex on the arm, adding, "I've only known you a small period of time; and I have to say, I do not know how or _why_ Sylvia developed any type of adoration for you. Then again, she had the humility one night to disclose some of her other past relationships which comparatively put yours on a level higher than a bookshelf. However, in spite of our differences, I have to thank you."

"Why?" Alex questioned, grinding his teeth.

"Without the intervention of your careless insensitivity and self-serving priorities, Sylvia and I would have never found each other." Oswald stated civilly. He grinned adding, "For that, you have my sincerest thanks and utmost gratitude. It was a displeasure meeting you; I hope you'll be going down South so we never have this encounter again. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Beals."

That said, he left the building.

Alex glared after him.

* * *

Sylvia hummed to herself, lying in the back of the limousine in which Oswald had come to the party. Just as she was about to fall asleep, she heard the door open; Sylvia opened her eyes, smiling as Oswald crawled inside as she straightened, her feet moving to the floorboard.

"Well, fancy meeting _you_ here," Sylvia teased.

Oswald grinned broadly at her, then closed his door.

"Were you pleasant, Sweetheart?"

"Very."

"Was he?"

"Not exactly, but considering the circumstances, I wouldn't fret." Oswald reassured, smirking when he saw Sylvia's aghast expression.

"I hoped you two left on good terms."

"Why is that, dear?"

"Well, considering you're going to be my plus-one to the engagement party, the odds of you meeting again are about 9:10."

Oswald frowned. _Crap,_ he had forgotten about that nice little interlude.

"Well, won't _that_ be a lovely evening." He muttered, less than thrilled.

"You can go dress shopping with me. For the engagement party." Sylvia offered. "After we pick out the dress, we can um…you know, go into the dressing room and see how well it looks falling off."

She leaned into him, licking his cheek. Oswald dropped his disgruntled twinge in pursuit of her lips pressing insistently against his.

This night would be full of fun in spite of it having started off so miserably. That was a highlight.


	39. Isabella

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Isabella

* * *

A/N: Thank you, SilverIce523, for your kind words and your reviews. I appreciate the positive feedback, and your valuable insight 😊

* * *

"How Tetch just happened to walk into the Founder's Dinner without being stopped is beyond my comprehension." Oswald said as Gabe opened the car doors for both himself and Sylvia once he'd pulled up to the manor.

"It's as easy as dressing up as a serial killer for Halloween."

Oswald raised his eyebrows at Sylvia, who walked around the car to meet him in the middle of the driveway; Gabe followed shortly after, smiling at the couple.

"It's 'easy'?"

"Mm-hmm. He just had to look like everybody else."

"Evidently, that's _all_ that he needed to do."

"At least he didn't hurt anyone."

"He knocked out a few of the guards posted around the room."

"Fine. He didn't harm anyone _important_."

To that fact, Oswald snickered.

As they spoke, they walked to the front door. Sylvia had to stop though; she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. Concerned, Oswald glanced at her as she answered it.

Sylvia gave a few short answers to the caller, and she quickly hung up.

"It's not him, is it?" Oswald whispered.

"No. It was the hospital. Jim was pulled out of whatever coma Tetch put him in. I'm going to—"

"—Check on him, I _know_."

Sylvia looked at Oswald curiously, a part of her struck with surprise at the sound of his disgruntled tone. Just as well, his facial expression matched it in congruence; darkened eyes, tightly pressed lips. Sylvia smiled politely at Gabe, saying, "Would you excuse us, please?"

Gabe leaned forward, saying almost pointedly to Oswald, "Since you said 'please', Liv." He sent her a gleeful smile and then he went inside the manor without another word. As he left, Sylvia crossed her arms, turning fully to Oswald, who looked at her expectantly.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing." Oswald answered dismissively; he started walking inside as well, but he felt a hand on his arm slowly but firmly dragging him back.

"I hate that answer, you know." Sylvia said coolly.

"Do you."

"Yes. And you also know that I can tell when you're lying to me."

Oswald frowned, realizing his error. He could tell huge tales to anyone, and they'd believe him either out of naivety or just being easily manipulated. Forget the fact that he and Sylvia had been together for a lifetime in Gotham years (almost four years) …Her hand that had been holding his arm firmly so he wouldn't leave now softened to rub him instead.

"What is wrong?" Sylvia asked again.

Oswald sighed reluctantly, but he knew she wouldn't let this go. By now, he'd learned that she wasn't the 'we'll talk about it later' type.

He didn't answer. He didn't _want_ to answer, knowing it might start yet another argument. They'd had plenty in the past few months; since they hadn't had one in the past two days (granted, they'd been separated during that time), and the last had been about the intense interrogation involving the Kabuki twins, Oswald had wanted to keep the peace just a little while longer.

"Is it because I want to check on Jim?" Sylvia asked knowingly.

"If you already know what the problem is, why do you ask me?"

"Because I want to make sure we're on the same page."

"Then this should make you happy: we are."

Sylvia scoffed, "How does that make me happy?"

"You wanted to be on the same page—"

"Why don't you want me to go check on Jim?"

"I don't mind if you do."

"So, what was with the tone?"

"What tone?"

"You _know_ what tone."

"I had no tone."

Sylvia put her hands on her face, slowly rubbing her eyelids, praying for patience. She uttered, "Just tell me why you don't want me to go see him, Oswald. Please? I don't want to get into an argument about a person's tone of voice."

"You see him _all_ the time. You talk to him _all_ the time." Oswald finally revealed to his own annoyance.

"What? No, I haven't seen him enough, if that was the case…"

"Well, in my opinion, you have."

"How? I've been down South all weekend."

"Precisely my point."

Sylvia stared at him, still trying to understand. Oswald was waiting for her to reach the conclusion. After a second or two, Oswald's face was slowly creeping up into two shades of pink: embarrassment. It was then that Sylvia picked up on it.

"You're jealous." She discovered with a smile.

"What?"

"We've been apart for a few days, and you're jealous because I'm going to see Jim instead of spending the rest of the night with you."

Oswald opened his mouth to object, but for all the rain of responses he might've been able to conjure, not a drizzle came out to save him. When one finally did come out, he said wholeheartedly, "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"It is."

Sylvia closed the distance between them, caressed his face between her hands, and kissed him. What indignant response he might've returned in fear of his jealousy uprooting whatever fondness Sylvia still held for him was silenced. Her kiss had been soft, but her advances had been a little rough; her approach had backed him against the wall of the manor.

Having her in his arms, the contact he'd been waiting for, a glow of love and appreciation swelled inside of him. As eager as he'd been to receive it, he quickly returned her kisses with as much passion.

Her hands left his face, slowly moving down his chest; her body pressed against his; one of her sandaled feet lifting to affectionately rub against the side of his pant leg.

Every movement she made, he felt. As if his senses were amplified over a weekend just so he could appreciate the minimal acts of contact she decidedly gave him.

"I'm s—" Oswald began to apologize.

Sylvia put her hand over his mouth, but she gave him a forgiving smile. Seeing it, Oswald smiled behind her hand. Then she gave him another kiss; this one was tender.

"I love you." She whispered.

"I love you too."

"I _am_ going to check on Jim, but I won't be staying for the entire night. I promise." Sylvia said as she reluctantly stepped away.

"I'll hold you to that."

Sylvia got into her personal vehicle, waving at him through the window as she quickly whipped out of the driveway and was on her way to the hospital.

* * *

Sylvia strode through the hospital corridors, peering swiftly at room numbers. As she approached Room 229 (per the ward clerk's vaguest instructions), she was surprised to see no one in the room. Just as she was about to question it, a hand touched her shoulder briefly; she turned.

"Mario." Sylvia greeted, smiling politely. "How nice it is to run into _you_ again."

"It wasn't by accident." He responded as he placed a patient's clipboard in the pocket of its twin door for another doctor's viewing pleasure.

"Oh?"

Mario's lips twisted into a stern smile, saying, "Gordon wasn't kidding when he said you'd be coming to the hospital in less than twenty-four hours. Either he knows you too well or it's possible that you've become predictable."

"Perhaps I'm both," Sylvia joked. "Where _is_ Jim?"

"He was discharged. I'm surprised he didn't let you know."

"I'm always the last to know."

"I imagine you'd sound a little more bitter about that."

"It's common in our family," Sylvia said easily, shrugging her shoulder. "How was he when he left?"

"Typical Gordon."

Sylvia scoffed and said soon after humorously, "There's nothing 'typical' about my brother. You don't know him that well, so I'll give that to you for free."

"So generous."

Sylvia smirked at him: "Wow."

"What?"

"Dr. Calvi has a sense of _humor_."

"It's a side Lee is only permitted to know."

"Well, I guess you broke your own code." Sylvia teased, poking his shoulder.

Mario grinned broadly: "I guess I did."

"Did Jim get sent home?"

"Yes. Wherever 'home' is to him."

"Cool beans. Thanks for looking after him."

"It's my job," Mario stated professionally.

Sylvia patted his arm, saying, "Yes, it's your job. I know Jim isn't the easiest man to get along with, considering he used to fuck your fiancée" (Mario stared at her, offended) "but you still saved his life. So, I think he'd owe you some gratitude. Probably doesn't at this point, seeing as _you_ are with Lee, and he isn't. In your shoes, anyone else might've let him die, but you brought him back from whatever seventh circle of Hell Tetch put him through. For that, you have mine."

She held out her hand; Mario shook it.

Candidly, he said, "You have a very distinct way of talking to people. Very bold. Very crass."

"I talk to everyone just about the same."

"You spoke to my father differently."

"I have a great admiration for your father," Sylvia explained, unabashed. "He's done more for Gotham than for what people really give him credit. I've got to check on my brother, so while it was _great_ catching up, I'll have to be going."

"You think he actually went home?"

"I doubt it."

"So how do you know where to look for him?"

"We know each other." Sylvia answered vaguely, and she left the hospital shortly after.

* * *

Sylvia strode into the GCPD.

It wasn't long before the Desk Sergeant spread the word that she was here. In a matter of minutes, Harvey Bullock approached her, clapped her appreciatively on the back, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her to his desk.

"Wow, what a hell of a greeting," Sylvia snickered. "What did I do to earn _that_?"

"Just happy that you're alive." Harvey placated; he held up his flask in her honor, and took a drink.

"Alive and kicking."

"You know you could've died at that dinner, right?"

"Probably. Anyway, where's Jim?"

Harvey chuckled. Sylvia never gave much thought to her own safety, never the less the life-threatening situations that might end her life.

"He's talking to Barnes," Harvey answered, flicking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the two people in Barnes' cabin.

"He's not in trouble, is he?"

"Not at all. Got caught up in that Red Queen's clutches. Tetch made sure he wasn't going to cause trouble—not for him, or anyone else."

"Where _is_ Tetch?"

"Where do you think," Harvey returned goodhumoredly. "The freak's in Arkham. Telling the guards rhymes, probably driving one of them crazy, if not all of them. Did you know he had your drink spiked with some of his sister's blood?"

"I had an idea," Sylvia replied carelessly.

Harvey leaned forward, seriously looking at her. Sensing his sudden change, Sylvia glanced at him readily.

"Were you really going to drink it?"

"I might've."

"Even knowing Alice's blood was in that thing?"

"If it saved everyone, sure."

"Damn. That's really sacrificial."

Sylvia chuckled when Harvey gave a noticeable shudder of disgust. She peered over his shoulder, waiting for Jim to come out of the office.

"Have a seat." Harvey insisted, indicating the chair at Jim's desk.

"I'd much rather stand."

Just as Harvey might have protested, Jim and Barnes came out of the cabin; Barnes continued to do his own thing with giving orders and telling people to stay on course while Jim sauntered out of the office with a pep in his step. Ironically, he was surprised to see Sylvia sitting in front of Harvey, who almost politely excused himself in place of this harmonious reunion.

Jim grabbed a folder, glancing through it busily before he pointedly returned Sylvia's heartwarming gaze; he sat at his desk.

"I guess Mario Calvi told you where I'd be." Jim offered conversationally.

"He said you'd be 'home'."

"Did you check my apartment?"

"No. 'Home' isn't where you live. It's where your heart is. And that's here." Sylvia returned knowingly, indicating the phrase with a click of her knuckles on his desk. "Kind of an odd place to visit just moments after given something as dangerous as the Red Queen."

"You know the drug?" Jim asked unhappily.

"I know _of_ it. It's expensive as hell, and it fries your brain to the point you could probably make an omelet on it. So, what did you see when you were under?"

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon. Troubled, angsty hero like you? I know you've seen some whacky hallucinations."

"That's why you came to see me, isn't it?"

"Kinda. So, let's have it." Sylvia said, wiggling her fingers at him to bring forth the entertainment.

Jim looked to his left and right, pondering the necessity to tell Sylvia about every single one of his hallucinations. Knowing she wouldn't let it go, though, he finally cracked under the pressure.

"Barbara was the driver—"

"Oh man, hold on. I've gotta sit for this one." Sylvia said quickly, grabbing Harvey's chair. She sat in it, putting her palm in her hand as she encouraged Jim to go on with the other one, waving at him.

"We were in an elevator, and she pulled all the stops. All the places I needed to go." Jim explained. "Bruce Wayne was in them for a little bit…I think Oswald was too."

"The gang's all there," Sylvia teased. "What else?"

"Lee and I were married."

"Wow, even your psyche agrees with me."

"We had two children."

"Even better." Sylvia exclaimed, smacking her knee excitedly. "What are their names?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there long enough to find out. I…I almost didn't want to leave."

"Well, there's some truth to that, but I guess you don't want to talk about _that_ , huh?"

"Not with you."

"That's a shame," Sylvia mused, smirking at him. "What else?"

"I saw Dad."

Sylvia stared at him for a second, and she said slowly, "These are hallucinations, still. Right? You didn't go above and beyond…?"

"No, this was definitely a hallucination." Jim assured, nodding his head. "But it felt real enough. He _sounded_ real enough."

"Ah. So, what did Dad have to say?"

"We got in the car—"

"—Car?" Sylvia interrupted him worriedly.

Jim noticed that tone and he said calmly, "It was the same one that he died in."

"That's heavy." She murmured.

"Yes, it was."

"What did you guys talk about?"

"Mostly me."

"So, your angst," Sylvia assumed with a small smile. "Your need to be the hero; the problem of you actually realizing that there's darkness in you, trying to deny what _I've_ been telling you this entire time?"

Jim smiled a little: "Yeah, basically."

"And what words of wisdom did Dad give you?"

"None at first."

"None? That's hard to believe."

"Well, you won't believe me but we talked about _you_ first." Jim said amusedly, sitting back in his seat.

"Now you're just fucking with me."

"Not at all."

"So, what did Dad have to say about me? A criticism here, and a criticism there?"

Jim leaned forward. He cradled Sylvia's hand within his, and said gently, "He said he was sorry for how he made you feel, that his anger towards our mother was unfairly passed onto you, and that he loves you very much. And he's proud of you."

Sylvia blinked, removing her hand from Jim's. She said quietly, "You're lying out of your ass."

"Am I?" Jim asked seriously.

"Yes."

"Are you sure about that?"

Sylvia whispered with a small smile, "No."

Jim grinned at her unsteady response. He leaned back again, casual as ever. It was a mood that Sylvia didn't see often, and she found it more over hilarious than anything.

"You were in them too, you know." Jim added.

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"Really."

"Yes."

"What did I do?" Sylvia asked, grinning mischievously. "Did I bop you on the head? Did I take your car keys?"

"We were just talking."

"Wow, that's boring."

"I was still an adult, but you were a kid again." Jim said, pointing at her.

Sylvia burst out laughing, "Okay, you're definitely fucking with me."

"I am." Jim admitted. "But you _were_ in my hallucinations. Me as me, you as…you. It was like the apocalypse was happening; it was…war."

"'War'?"

"Gunfire, bombs, rocket launchers," Jim listed. "Like I was back in the Army all over again. The only difference was you."

Sylvia smiled sincerely, saying, "As an enemy?"

"You were my commander." Jim said with a quick exhale, as though he couldn't believe it either. "Telling our ranks what to do, how to do it. I expected you to be afraid since you have never been in war, but you were actually…You were pretty good at it."

"Bossy, huh?" Sylvia teased.

" _Very_." Jim agreed. "You had me stand at attention, and you started barking orders at me to get back with Lee, and get my shit together."

Sylvia nodded: "That sounds like me, all right."

"Then you were shot."

Sylvia startled: " _Excuse me_?"

"Someone from the other side shot you," Jim told her quietly. He looked as though the event had actually happened; granted, from where he was sitting, it might as well have. Hallucinations were vivid, lucid.

"I saw you," Jim uttered quietly, his face breaking into distress and devastation. "You didn't move, you didn't talk, you didn't…You _couldn't_."

Sylvia bit her bottom lip uncertainly; she stood and walked over to Jim, and put her arms around him. He hugged her back, smiling at her sweet gesture.

"I'm guessing that these hallucinations were trying to tell you something?" She asked knowingly.

Jim nodded: "I joined the GCPD."

"Again."

"Yes, again."

Sylvia kissed the top of his head and sat back in Harvey's chair, saying, "Well, it was only a matter of time."

"Yes. I suppose it was."

"Since you're going to be working with Lee, you might want to know this. I've been invited to the engagement party as a guest, but also I'll be providing the entertainment." Sylvia listed off casually, pulling her hair back into a scrunchie while Jim simply gazed at her cynically.

"That was the 'big event' you were telling me about the other day?"

"Wow. I'm genuinely surprised you remember that conversation. You were completely plastered when I mentioned that."

Jim smirked, saying, "I remembered the conversation."

"Well, you were going to find out one way or another. Word of mouth or by reading…my name is on the invitations."

"Remind me not to go."

"That'll be easy, considering you're not invited."

"Ouch, that hurts."

"I'll kick you in the balls if it'd make you forget the pain."

Jim chuckled, "That was always your go-to."

"Still is." Sylvia sighed with a fondness; she stood, and hugged Jim again. "I have to go home now."

"Ah, yes. How has Oswald been?"

"I don't know. I've been gone all weekend."

"Down South."

"Mm-hmm. At Falcone's beach house." Sylvia answered offhandedly.

"For the engagement party?"

"Yep. Your detective skills are _sharp_."

Jim smiled sarcastically at her tease and she waved good-bye so she could head back home.

* * *

Sylvia walked through the manor with little effort to be quiet. Her feet were achy; her legs were sore, and the trifle with Tetch had been more mentally draining than she'd bargained for. She was in the process of answering text messages from her staff at _Lean on Vee's_ when she waltzed into the living room to see Ed and a young blonde engaged in a heavy make-out session.

With her interruption, the couple broke apart unsteadily.

Sylvia glanced at them with a smile.

"Wow, _this_ is awkward." She said casually.

"Liv…" Ed greeted. "I thought you came home at the same time Oswald did."

"We did, but I had to leave to check on my brother. Tetch got his hooks into him and they've finally been pried off." Sylvia explained. She glanced at the blonde, who was curiously peering between her and Ed, likely trying to comprehend the relationship.

"Liv, this is Isabella. Isabella…Sylvia."

Sylvia smirked, noticing how quickly Ed used her full name rather than the nickname he usually utilized to introduce her to other people. Maybe it was a formality since Isabella was just only now meeting her, or maybe something else.

Isabella quickly approached her, holding out her hand to shake. Sylvia took it gingerly.

"The librarian," Sylvia recalled, pointing at her amusedly.

"Yes!" Isabella said happily. "I work at the Main Public Library."

"Huh. Do you like that type of work?" Sylvia asked.

Ed watched them converse, an odd smile on his face as though he'd hoped this would happen, but simultaneously, a part of him wished that these two women hadn't met just yet.

"I like it enough," Isabella said, nodding enthusiastically. "Reading is a passion of mine. Do you like your job?"

"Well, for the most part. It can be a nasty ordeal: doing one's duty. But every now and then," Sylvia said with a small smirk, "it's a real pleasure."

Isabella tilted her head to the side as though she couldn't understand as to what job Sylvia was referencing (clearly she thought she spoke of being the Mayor's wife or a club owner); the job Sylvia had as the Penguin's enforcer hadn't been made quite known to her...Sylvia doubted Ed might've told her such a detail, considering it would have laid Oswald's position as Mayor to slaughter.

"Do you…Do you live here?" Isabella asked, gesturing to the manor.

"I do. I'm married to its owner." Sylvia answered civilly.

The woman used such a soft, tender voice. It was hard to hate her for it. So gentle, this Isabella character was. So tender…

"Oh, you're the Mayor's wife."

Sylvia looked at Isabella as though she was trying to figure out whether this librarian was being willfully dim or just naïve. Ed stepped forward, pulling Isabella gently away as he explained, "Isabella doesn't make a habit of reading the newspaper."

"I'm pretty known in Gotham, Ed." Sylvia reminded. "Most people know who I am regardless if they read the newspaper…or watch the news. But I give her credit" (she smiled at Isabella) "she can certainly play the part well."

"Part?" Isabella said curiously. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean."

Sylvia stepped forward and said softly, "Don't you?"

A quiet threat, a subtle one.

As a point, Ed cleared his throat to which Sylvia smiled candidly.

"It was a great pleasure meeting you, Isabella." Sylvia told her politely. "But clearly, I've interrupted date night. So, if you'll excuse me…" She left the room.

As she did, Isabella looked at Ed.

"Did she just threaten me?" She asked quietly.

"I'm not sure, honestly." Ed admitted.

"Is she always like that to people she's never met?"

Ed said gently, "She's just really protective of her friends."

* * *

The room was dark, quiet. Sylvia opened the door to the bedroom, a little of the hallway's light seeping in for only a moment before she closed it as she entered. She undressed, left only in her lingerie, before she climbed into bed. As she pulled the covers to her neck, she felt Oswald snuggle up to her; his warm embrace welcomed a wave of drowsiness; his pajamas like silk against her skin.

"Did you run into them too?" He asked sleepily.

"Yes, I did."

He opened his eyes, meeting hers.

"I'm starting to like her less and less." Oswald admitted bitterly.

"I can understand why."

"What did you think about her?"

Sylvia frowned at that question. On the surface, Isabella was endearing, sincere, sweet, and tender. There was a softness to her that was almost calming, but there was something else that Sylvia couldn't place. A tenderness that could put people to ease, but was also a cover for manipulation. At any other time, Sylvia might've thought this was paranoia creeping up, but, thanks to Falcone, his gift had left her unencumbered. The whole thing was puzzling, but one thing was for certain.

Isabella was not who she claimed to be.

"Sylvia?"

She glanced at Oswald, seeing him instead of seeing past him.

"I don't know what to think of her. Something doesn't sit right with this one," Sylvia answered truthfully. She leaned into him, kissed his cheek. "But I intend to find out why."

Oswald kissed her; his lips connecting with hers, a little bit of pressure there.

Sylvia smiled: "Did you want to fool around before falling back to sleep, Love?"

"Honestly, I'm a little tired." Oswald admitted.

"We can cuddle, then."

"I'd like that."

Sylvia smiled as he urged her to turn on her side. She did, and he wrapped his arms around her.

It was his turn to be the big spoon.


	40. Nygma Sr

Chapter Forty: Nygma Sr.

* * *

A/N: Thank you, SaruwatariAsuka, for your review It was the highlight of my day!

* * *

As old as the Van Dahl manor was, its predecessor had spoken truths about its age, and supernatural genetics. Elijah mentioned there were plenty of ghosts in the home, but _hearing_ one wasn't exactly expected, particularly in the same night Sylvia and Oswald had come back from the egregious dinner so rudely interrupted by Jervis Tetch.

At first, Sylvia was certain she was dreaming. The low, guttural groans echoed through the bedroom, like a grumpy old-timer just slowly waking up from a deep slumber. When the fog of sleep dispersed, Sylvia steadily sat up, and she quietly laughed to herself when she realized that the house was making noises itself.

The putter-patter of rain drops pecked the window panes; the howling wind not so deafening but crudely noticed as its screams became deafened then silenced by the roll of thunder which always followed after the flash of lightning.

A light sleeper as she was proven to be, Sylvia wasn't surprised that this thunderstorm woke her up. Still, it was a shame that she'd awakened at all; her sleep had been so restful, she was actually enjoying it.

Beside her, Oswald was restlessly turning from his side to his back; whether he was conscious of it wasn't made clear. After a minute or two, he'd seamlessly fall back to sleep, but then he'd turn over on his side again.

If the ghosts weren't haunting the manor, they were haunting their dreams.

Taking pity on him, Sylvia languidly ran her hand up and down Oswald's shoulder in small strokes, then slowly entangled her fingers in his feather-soft hair. Her fingertips placed a little pressure against the nape of his neck, massaging. After doing this for a few minutes, a quiet, peaceful sigh escaped his lips ("Thank you, Pigeon") before falling back into a deep sleep once more.

When he didn't wake up, Sylvia slowly pulled herself out of bed, slipping a baby blue robe over her shoulders and as she walked out of the room, she sashed it across her waist. Walking down the stairs in the middle of a thunderstorm, she noticed immediately that the power had gone out; the lights didn't turn on, and any sort of requiem for electricity would be eliminated until morning.

She was in the middle of getting a fire going, muttering a few curses when she couldn't find her lighter in either the living room or the kitchen.

" _It's on the mantle, Liv._ "

"FUCK!" Sylvia shouted, jumping from the couch.

She held her chest where her heart beat frantically before she jerkily turned to see Ed sitting on the couch. The clouds dulled any type of visibility for lack of moonlight, and the flash of lightning gave his arbitrary appearance an impish air.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," Ed joked, "but if you're offering…"

At his response, Sylvia was humored, then taken aback. Just the boldness of the statement made her eyebrow raise; the fact that he was charmed by another woman at the moment and yet would consider the offer if she handed it to him was a topic altogether.

Sylvia glanced him over. He wore a pair of white shorts; not exactly boxers, but shorter than basketball uniform attire. His long legs were crossed at the ankle, both of which sat perched on the edge of the coffee table before him; he wore a white T-shirt that was well-pressed be it presentation or for lying around…He certainly appeared at ease for what it was worth. Perhaps that was due to the contents of the glass he held in his right hand; amber liquid, smooth, and decadent.

She couldn't think of how to respond to his comment; and if she could, there was not a comeback that would have given it due justice. Wordlessly, she narrowed her eyes, squinting at the mantle; after a roll of thunder, a flash of light cracked open the sky and it served its purpose as she found the lighter.

She bent down at the waist, rolling back the spark and was relieved when she got it on the third try. After, she waited for the fire to roar…When it flickered into one that she deemed satisfactory, Sylvia looked at Ed, who returned the simple gaze with a mischievous smile of his own.

" _You're_ up late." Ed said, gesturing to her with the glass in his hand.

"I was woken up."

"By the thunder?"

"By the house," Sylvia corrected smoothly. She wrapped her arms around herself, adding, "I thought it might've been a ghost or something…"

Ed chuckled skeptically, "I _highly_ doubt that."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, challenging his disbelief. It was too late or too early to get into a philosophical debate with Edward Nygma about the possibility of an afterlife, or even reincarnation as it suited him, so for her own benefit and possible self-preservation, she tried not to but it was inevitable with him.

"Ghosts don't exist." Ed stated, with glib.

"This is a _very_ old house." Sylvia reminded. "A memory can withstand the test of time…or life for that matter."

"Humans have memories. Houses don't. Humans die. Houses don't live _or_ die…They just simply exist or not at all."

After saying so, Ed took a drink from his glass. As the fire roared to its full potential, Sylvia glanced at the coffee table to see that he had a whole bottle of whiskey sitting atop a coaster; another was provided, proving that he might've been sitting here for a hot second, drinking in the dark silence.

"Why are _you_ up?" Sylvia questioned. "I thought you'd be partying it up with Miss Thang."

"You mean 'Isabella'."

"Of course."

"She had to go back to her apartment."

"Ah. Well, that's a shame."

Ed cleared his throat when the whiskey settled, and as he poured himself another shot, he said coolly, "Why did you tell her that she was 'playing the part so well'?"

"Because I felt the need to comment and so, naturally, I did."

"But what did you mean by it?" Ed asked.

This time his voiced changed in tone from cool and curious to one of seriousness and it was swaddled in, if it wasn't subtle enough, a darker, more protective layer.

Sylvia smiled secretively but she was reluctant to say. Her silence didn't go unnoticed. And while she'd expected a savagely speckled retort to come her way about her quiet threat to Isabella's doe act, none came. Instead, Ed held up the bottle of whiskey as an unspoken invitation.

Taking him up on it, even if it was to disintegrate the unsteady ground, Sylvia smiled gratefully and joined him on the couch. With his shot glass in hand and the bottle in hers, they clinked the glassware.

"Do you really think there are ghosts in this house?" asked Ed.

"Your skepticism is bouncing off the grid, Mr. Riddles."

"I asked a question."

"I answered it."

"You didn't."

"Guilty," Sylvia said with a crooked grin. "Honestly, I don't think the ghosts are in this place. Elijah did, though. Spoke to the truth emphatically."

Ed turned towards her so one of his legs bent and was folded underneath him while the other planted slowly to the floor. He pondered her response with unspoken curiosity, his eyes flickering from the shot glass in his hand to the bottle in hers, and then, he met her eyes with the narrowest of gazes.

"Did you like Oswald's father?" He asked.

She shrugged: "For the time I knew him, he seemed alright."

"Oh yeah? Did you two get along?" Ed asked; soon after, he downed the shot.

"Again…For the time that I knew him, yes. He was sweet."

"Was he anything like your father?"

Sylvia's smile hardened as she replied coolly, "Not at all."

"Oh really? What's the difference?"

"I got along with Elijah. Then again, he wasn't _my_ father."

"I have a hard time believing that's the only reason you two got along so well."

"Oh yeah?" Sylvia challenged. She took a drink from the bottle, leaned forward, and said curtly, "Did you ever get along with _your_ father?"

Ed looked at her, as though he was startled by the mere mention of his patriarchy. As though he'd forgotten that there was another part of him that had existed prior to his own birth. His upper lip twitched; and even in the shadow and light of the outside weather and the blazing fire, Sylvia could see his eyes darkening from their chocolate brown hue to that of earnest disgust and repressed hate.

"I guess not," Sylvia uttered softly.

Ed turned away from her, muttering, "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like _that_." Ed pointed at her face. "I don't need it."

"Need what?"

"You know what."

"Clearly, I don't." Sylvia reminded him, pointing out the fact that her obliviousness should've been made obvious at this point. "I'm not looking at you in any certain way. At all."

"The hell you aren't." Ed returned. Disgruntled. "It's the same look the police and every person in the GCPD ever gave me." He used his hands to gesticulate his mockery, adding, "Poor Ed…Poor, poor Ed with his stupid puns, word games, and his _stupid_ riddles."

Sylvia furrowed her eyebrows, trying to understand where this kind of conversation had come from. Honestly, she wondered if his repressed childhood had come out from behind the lightning and thunder, and was brought to life by the content of alcohol currently swirling around in his blood stream.

"If you think I'm pitying you, I'm not." Sylvia told him flatly.

Ed looked at her. His eyes nearly drilled a hole into hers. But she didn't break away from the gaze; so, when the silence between them intensified, Ed dulled it by shaking his head, breaking the eye contact, so he could fill up his glass once more.

She leaned forward: "Why _are_ you up so late?"

"I told you."

"No, you didn't. You said Isabella went to her apartment. You could've gone back to sleep, but here you are. Here _we_ are, in fact."

"I couldn't sleep."

"I think that's pretty obvious."

"Then why did you ask the question?"

Sylvia sighed patiently, "You can be snippy if you want, but…Cards on the table: You have _never_ in my entire time of knowing you _ever_ mentioned your father. Not when you've been drunk, not when you were still _you_ " (she gestured to him in such a way to point out that he was not the same man as he was before) "or any time before that."

"So?"

"So…Did you want to talk about him?"

Ed said crisply, "Why would I want to do that?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I think that's apparent."

Sylvia pressed her lips together tightly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She gingerly reached out to him, taking away his glass; he looked at her, affronted, but in that moment, he realized that this was the side of her that most people would be so grateful to see. The nurturing, compassionate, I-will-listen-to-you-all-day-and-never-get-bored side that Oswald treasured, and likely was the side that Ed needed now more than ever.

"Tell me about your father, Ed."

"What good would that do?"

"You'll see."

"Do you talk about _your_ father?"

"I can. If that would make it easier for you." Sylvia offered gently.

Ed stubbornly remained silent.

She took the reins and said softly, "Neither of my parents understood me. My mother abandoned me when I was younger; my dad was a real hard-ass. Now, you."

"I thought you were going to talk about him."

"I am. Now, _you_ go."

"What is this?"

"Quid pro quo." Sylvia said sternly. She put her hand on his shoulder, adding, "You _need_ this, Ed. Whatever this storm brought out, whatever this side of you has come out because of it or the booze, you _need_ to talk about him."

"I am him."

"Not you, you. Or the other you. Your dad."

"I don't see why—"

"Then how about I guess?" Sylvia said quickly.

Ed blinked. He said lowly, " _What_?"

"I think I know what your dad was like." She explained slowly. "So, you don't have to speak ill about him, if you don't want to."

Ed frowned. He took her hand off his shoulder pointedly.

"Do you know what my father was like?" Ed asked, his voice was dangerously low, and steady.

He moved closer to her on the couch; Sylvia slowly backed up, eyes growing wide as his irritation grew as he spoke.

"He was a jealous, ignorant baboon. Because I made high marks, because _I_ was better than _him_ in academics and anything to do with intelligence, he punished me."

Sylvia gradually stood when the space on the couch ran out; Ed got to his feet, meeting her and, incidentally, pinning her against the back of it as he cornered her. Sylvia tilted her head, looking up at him, meeting his glare…reserved, not for her, but for a man that neither deserved his son's affections nor his loyalty.

"Ed, I don't know _what_ your father did to you but—"

"I could make straight A's," Ed continued darkly, "and he would whip me with a wooden spoon. I _did_ make straight A's throughout the course of my childhood, and he dished out his punishments with an iron switch. And if I made anything lower than his expectations, the same was waiting for me back home. Nothing was good enough for him… _nothing_."

Ed put his hands on Sylvia's shoulders; his grip was tight, his fingers digging.

"And he treated my mother the same way." He uttered quietly. "Every night, I'd wait for him to stop shouting at me, and if he was dishing his punishments at her, I'd always wish he'd spare _her_ " (he gestured violently to the front door) "and hurt me instead. The only reprieve granted to me was when he finally passed out from alcohol intoxication.

"I was hoping I'd get a _little_ clap on the back when I made Forensics, but _hello_ and no surprise or shock to anyone…Even the White Knights of Gotham couldn't spare me an _ounce_ of respect." Ed said harshly. He frowned, adding, "Not that I expected them too…Or asked for it."

Sylvia felt his grip slacken; his eyes suddenly bounced from hers to his hands and he quickly released her. The feeling of slowly forming bruises would welcome her later in the day; at the moment, the pain was forgotten.

Ed frowned; the expressive lines of his face deepened in their crevices; his jaw torqued with unreleased tension, and restrained disappointment.

"Ed…" Sylvia whispered.

He stared down at the ground, stepping away from her.

"Ed, look at me."

He slowly met her eyes.

Sylvia reached up, and cradled his face between her hands.

"The people from whom you demand respect," She said firmly, "do not _deserve_ your respect."

He gave her the biggest pair of puppy dog eyes known to mankind, the kind that could rival only those so pitiful like the heartbreak or sadness of her husband's.

"You," She said sternly, "are intelligent, vastly more than anyone else I have ever known in my entire life. And _you_ know that. You needn't have anyone—in this city or _any_ other place—tell you otherwise."

Ed smiled at her.

"I can see why you'd like to prove it though," She offered with a small grin. "With riddles and such."

"A good riddle reveals the asker. To solve it is to solve the mystery—"

"—Behind the person posing it."

Ed stared at her, then he cracked a grin: "You're a step aside from Isabella's level…regarding your ability to complete my train of thought."

"On a contrary," Sylvia mused. "I'm two steps above. For what it is worth, no one chooses who fucks their mother and no one chooses who gets to open dear mother's legs; there's no riddle to solve for that one; it's a toss of the dice, and movement of mice."

Ed grinned broadly, saying, "Is that the way of it?"

"Well, I know _I_ didn't choose any of my blood kin. The only people I chose to be in my life are those who currently live with me now. And yes, Riddles. That _does_ include you. So, the next time you decide to drown your sorrows in whiskey and darkness, have the decency to include _others_ in your downward spiral. At least then it won't look nearly as pathetic, or boring."

Ed smirked when Sylvia poked him hard in the chest.

"Alcohol's going to my head, so I'm heading upstairs." She uttered.

She left the room, and readied herself to climb the staircase; shortly before she did, Ed's long fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her back. Slowly, she retreated, steadying herself against the banister. A small sense of urgency to flee quickly turned to stone as he stood directly in front of her, closing the distance between them.

Slowly, he looked her over; his other hand that wasn't holding her wrist moved to the sash along her waist, and he pulled it towards him so her robe became undone, revealing her matching baby blue night slip underneath. Sylvia watched him carefully, but she remained quite still.

Ed leaned forward; Sylvia caught him, pressing her unrestrained hand against his chest.

"Don't do something you might regret, Edward."

He glanced down at her hand, saying quietly, "I doubt I'd regret _this_."

"Not now, but you might later." She reminded. "Remember Isabella? Hmm?"

"You're right…You're right," He put the distance between them again.

Sylvia gave him a forgiving smile.

"I'll see—"

"Endlessly, I hunger; lazily, I sleep. Murderous, I thunder. Desires, I do seek. Hoarding countless treasures, so my stature I retain; envious of others whose feet on Earth remain. What am I?"

Sylvia blinked and then she cracked a grin: "The Seven Deadly Sins. Gluttony, sloth, wrath, lust, greed, pride, and envy."

"What was that fourth one again?"

Sylvia felt her throat get a little dry and she whispered, "Lust."

"Hm. You are absolutely correct." He let her wrist go, and gestured to himself: "Now, if I am not mistaken, you should have one for _me_."

It had gotten a little hard to swallow, but somehow, she found the ability to do so. She stepped forward, and Ed found _his_ back stiff against the wall opposite of the banister.

"Of no use to one; yet absolute bliss to two. The small boy gets it for nothing. The young man has to lie for it. The old man has to buy it. I am the baby's right, the lover's privilege, and the hypocrite's mask. To the young girl, I am faith; to the married woman, hope; to the old maid, charity. What am I?"

Ed opened his mouth to answer, but he was stumped when Sylvia moved closer to him and kissed his cheek.

"You revealed the answer before I had a chance to say it." Ed told her.

"We both know you'd have guessed it." Sylvia said, grinning at him. "Plus, _you_ were thinking along the same lines earlier."

Ed grinned and said lowly, "Can you guess what I am thinking now?"

An impish grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and his lips parted to speak but Sylvia shook her head and said, "You know what, _don't_ tell me. Let's—oh! How about we just put it down as a riddle, huh?"

"Well, I—"

"Cool, I agree too. I'll see you in the morning." Sylvia said quickly, grinning widely. "Great talk. Good night!"

She climbed the staircase two steps at a time.

Ed watched after her, amused as ever.

* * *

Author's Note: One of the things I wish the Gotham Writers had been able to do was give Edward Nygma a little more backstory. Had Fox just let us have our seven seasons, I'm certain we'd have gotten to that point. So here's my little tidbit on it; hope to do other characters justice in the future :)


	41. The Rooster Inevitability

Chapter Forty-One: The Rooster Inevitability

Author's Note: Thank you, SilverIce523, for your reviews. I love reading them XD And SaruwatariAsuka for your reviews as well. I really can't express how much I appreciate them :)

The engagement party was taking place at ' _The Quarter_ ', a classy restaurant with a bar. Per Sylvia's recommendations and Falcone's decisions, the place was decked out in mostly scarlet red decorations such as the table cloths, the banners and cascading ribbons that were tied around the chandeliers in elegant wisps. The rest of the decorations were gold, such as the napkins, candle holders, and a few center pieces on the tables.

Chairs reserved for some of Falcone's capos were done so with silver name plates, which sat in prime viewing for all guests to see as they'd approach; the reservation specifically meant for the future bride and groom was located in the very center for everyone to admire and spread the congratulations as widely and contagiously as the bubonic plague.

In owing to make sure the event went without a hitch, Sylvia (and thereby Oswald as well) had come to the party an hour prior to the time designated for the guests to start arriving. Sylvia got out of the limo almost immediately after it was parked, only for her near-sprint to be retracted as Oswald held onto her.

" _What_?" Sylvia asked impatiently.

Oswald held up a hand, a nonverbal sense of telling her to calm down, and take her time. He looked her over briefly, taking into consideration that for tonight's entertainment, she had dressed for the occasion.

Having the tendency to dress more like her brother than himself, any occasion where Sylvia wore formal wear to include her high heels was always a highlight in Oswald's opinion. For this occasion, she wore a navy-blue dress; the straps themselves lifted up and crossed over her neck, leaving her shoulders bare, and a fairly modest but teasing view of her breasts. Her ginger locks were pulled back into an Elven-like style, curled and braided; small strings of 2mm-sized pearls had been strategically strewn through her hair by Oswald himself.

He had to admire his work for the hour he'd put into it; and while he did, there was a tinge of jealousy due to the fact that others would be admiring her too.

Even after the couple of years of watching her sing and entertain guests with her appearance and talents, Oswald _still_ had a few moments where he felt inclined to keep her all to himself and let not a soul see just how beautiful she looked (with or without the jewelry).

Because of her fancy ensemble, Sylvia's makeup was plainer; aside from the double winged eyeliner and nude lipstick, she hardly wore any.

"What?" Sylvia asked again.

Oswald smiled, a little embarrassed. He'd become lost in looking at her.

"You look _very_ beautiful." He managed.

Sylvia beamed. A small blush stained her cheeks as she said modestly, "Is that the reason you stopped me from walking in?"

Oswald gently touched her shoulder with a gloved hand, picking off a few strands of ginger hair that had abandoned the rest of the quarry of elegant curls.

"Ah," She mewed. "You're just freshening me up. Any flaws?"

She spun around in front of him, slowly. He grinned at her.

"Any discrepancies?" She teased.

Oswald answered her: "None."

Sylvia looked him over. He matched her in formal wear; they'd come to the engagement party with a matching theme: navy blue...even though the theme of the engagement party were colors of red and gold. But when did Sylvia ever follow another man's rules?

Anyway, she _loved_ seeing Oswald wear blue. It brought out the silhouette of royalty. Sylvia waved as Gabe drove the limousine back to the mansion, then she turned to Oswald. Wordlessly, she brushed some lint off his waist, looking him over with a smile.

"Are you nervous?" Oswald asked quietly.

Sylvia said dismissively, "Nervous? Why would I be nervous?" (She leaned in and kissed his cheek.) "I have _you_ with me, don't I?"

Oswald grinned at her compliment. The implication, again, that she felt safer with him. As a point, he held out his arm; her fingers wrapped around the enclosed space between his forearm and elbow.

As they walked through the door, Oswald viewed the entirety of the restaurant with an impressive eye. He recognized talent when he saw it; amongst her talents for putting guests at ease, singing arias (or busting out a rap), and choreography, she had a hidden one: interior decorating.

He stood in the center, both hands on his cane as he admired the center pieces on the tables; some of the pieces were hand-sized, small doves; others were wolves.

Oswald glanced up to see Sylvia on the 'stage'. It was almost as if the stage at which the entertainment might perform was an afterthought for the original interior designer who'd built the restaurant; the 'stage', as it might've been named, was an inch higher off the ground and had room enough for about five people, but no more. As it were, Oswald doubted such an event would require that many performers; Sylvia had enough talent to book out twenty bands and singers for all of Gotham.

At least, that was _his_ opinion. Although he was certain that many other people would share it.

"Whose idea was it to have glass wolves for the centerpieces?" Oswald asked amusedly as he picked one up, looking it over.

"Falcone."

"Dare I ask which one?"

"The son." Sylvia answered offhandedly.

She tapped the microphone, and Oswald glanced up at her again to see her do the whole 'testing one, two, three' cliché. There was a marginal effort on her part to make sure the entire engagement party didn't fall flat on its back; what, with some of the more infamous invitees of Falcone's old crime family, there was plenty to go wrong at such a _public_ event.

Sylvia was fixing a few of the decorations that had steadily fallen off the chandeliers; she'd gotten onto the table, standing on its surface, and looked as though she was fishing for a line. After a few minutes, they were fixed back into their original positions and she hopped off the table with exceptional spryness for someone who hadn't worn heels in a few weeks.

"How is the seating arrangement?" Oswald asked as she met him in the center of the restaurant.

Her eyes flickered over the chairs (about fifty).

"Mario Falcone and Lee will sit there," Sylvia explained, gesturing to the table directly in the center. "Others…well, everywhere else."

"Where's our table?"

"There." She said, pointing to the seat at the table that was named notably, 'Penguin'.

Oswald chuckled as he sauntered over to aforementioned table, picking up the engraved reservation with his moniker. He held it up to her, amused as ever.

"That was polite of them to do this." He commented.

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Falcone knew you were coming. Why? Is something wrong?"

"They had a choice to either engrave 'Mayor' or 'O. Cobblepot', or 'Penguin', and they chose the latter."

"And…That bothers you?"

Oswald snickered, "Not at all. In fact, I prefer it."

He sat his cane against the chair; it slid a little before the hook of the penguin's beak caught on the back of the wooden oak, hooking itself and becoming still. He mindfully gave the table itself a surveying gaze before looking up to see Sylvia watching him curiously.

"You 'prefer' it?"

"To everyone else, I'm more than happy to be seen as the Mayor," Oswald explained, gesturing to the front door. "To _these_ people" (He now indicated the room itself) "I am Penguin."

Oswald let out a small noise of entertainment as he picked up Sylvia's 'reserved' namesake. The same had been done to hers. Instead of 'S. Cobblepot' or 'First Lady' as it might've been, whomever had ordered the name reservations had, instead, reserved her seat as 'Lark'.

Sylvia took the plate from him, setting it back down.

"Well, I'm glad you're already in a good humor." She mused coolly.

"I'm with _you,_ aren't I?"

"Nice callback."

"Thank you," Oswald returned with a grin.

"I'm going to turn on the music."

"I'll be here."

"Fantastic." Sylvia said, rolling her eyes playfully at him.

She left his side, walking over to the bar. She walked around the stools and reached under the counter, pressing a button. After she did, a slow, classical hymn had started projecting overhead, filling the entire restaurant. Oswald peered up at the ceiling, noticing that most of the music was coming from _it_ ; he preferred it, since some restaurants had resolved to using more static sound systems.

This restaurant was hitting the five-star mark.

Sylvia came back to his side, smiling beautifully.

"There's still another half-hour before the people start to swarm," She offered sweetly. "Wanna dance with me?"

"Pigeon…"

"It'd relax me a little." Sylvia persuaded, taking the hem of his dress jacket, tugging at it playfully.

"I thought you weren't nervous."

"I'm a _little_ nervous."

"And slow dancing will calm you, is that it?"

" _It_ can't, but _you_ can." Sylvia uttered softly. "It's not like I'm asking you to fuck me in the broom closet...although, you know, I'm already thinking about it."

She kissed his cheek. When that didn't persuade him, Sylvia kissed him on the lips, and ran her hands up and down his chest, making sure to dig her fingernails for a teasing effect. It worked as Oswald gave in.

They moved away from the chairs and tables, standing in the open. Oswald took one of her hands in his; the other fell to her hip; Sylvia's unoccupied hand rested on his shoulder.

It wasn't so much of a 'dance' as it was a 'sway'; the classical hymn consisted of mostly string instruments, playing softly, lowly.

After a few minutes, their hands changed positions: Oswald held her waist, while Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck. Lost in the music, Sylvia closed her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder. Oswald simply smiled to himself when he heard her contented sigh.

"Je'taime beaucoup," He heard her whisper.

"Je'taime aussi," Oswald returned.

Another minute passed in which the violins strummed, during which neither Sylvia nor Oswald said anything. Then…

"It's not often we get to do this." Sylvia uttered.

"It isn't often that I can."

"I said 'we'."

Oswald smiled guiltily, although he was a little relieved that she didn't see it. Yes, she _did_ say 'we'. But he felt primarily responsible for the moments when they didn't share moments of intimacy. He'd been distracted with Ed's fawning over Isabella, it hadn't really occurred to him that he sometimes missed the moments where he and Sylvia could just do this…Not being asked to be Penguin or Lark, or the Mayor and First Lady, or anything more than just a married couple.

"You smell good," Sylvia whispered.

Oswald cracked a grin and said humorously, "Well, that comes as a relief to me."

She giggled at his joke.

"Is it a new cologne?"

"It is."

"I like it." Sylvia commented.

"Thank you."

"I'm glad we came here early."

"Me too."

Oswald and Sylvia continued to sway to the music.

More silence between them followed, but it was comfortable.

"These heels are killing my feet." Sylvia mumbled.

"Why didn't you wear your flats?"

"This dress is too long for flats. It'd drag across the floor."

"Did you bring them with you for later?"

"No," Sylvia said, shaking her head. "I didn't want to carry them around. I'll just walk barefoot."

"That's not sanitary, Pigeon."

"Well, on the plus side, this entire restaurant is carpeted."

" _Is_ that a plus side?"

"What, no good?"

"Not exactly." Oswald returned with a small laugh. (She felt the light vibration of his chest.) "Carpet is worse."

"Well, I don't know how long I'll be walking around in these damn things."

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're pinchy."

"What?"

Sylvia gesticulated to her feet, looking up at him, explaining, "They pinch my toes. On the ranking of uncomfortable, they're about a nine."

"What's a ten?"

"Losing my foot to a hacksaw."

Oswald made a painful expression, confirming, "Yes, I imagine that _would_ be uncomfortable."

"Simultaneously, after all is said and done, it'd probably be less painful wearing heels. Might even be economically worth it in the future."

"Why is that?"

"Well, I don't know about you but if I'm only wearing one fucking shoe, I'm getting it half-price."

Oswald grinned: "I don't think it works that way."

"I never said I was giving the store an option."

"So, you'd steal your shoes for the rest of your life?" Oswald asked humorously as they took a step back from one another, taking her hand and lifting it so she slowly twirled.

"Why not? I steal other shit." Sylvia commented.

He pulled her to him, his arms wrapped around her stomach as her back pressed lightly against his chest. Her hands rested over his knuckles.

"But shoes are economically affordable."

"So is gum. But I steal _that_ too." Sylvia said slyly, tilting her head to the side so she smirked, crinkling her nose playfully at him.

They swayed to the violin's slowly played strings.

Oswald kissed her neck: "You're incorrigible."

"But you like it, don't you?"

Oswald nodded, saying, "It has its benefits."

" _Well, well, well…And here I thought_ I _was early_."

Sylvia and Oswald stopped dancing and they both turned in the direction of the front door. Mario and Carmine Falcone first entered through the room, followed shortly by Alex Beals, or as he preferred, 'Rooster'. Both Falcones were dressed appropriately for the evening, although Falcone appeared to have a 24/7 dress code for these events, regardless if it was a casual dinner at his place or an engagement party for his eldest. Alex was dressed in the same manner: black and white suit.

Carmine Falcone, who had greeted the Cobblepots warmly and almost playfully (an emotion that seemed foreign to Oswald where his former patron was concerned) strolled over to them. He held out his hand to Oswald, who shook it; both men eyed each other with a similar regard of respect on the surface although there was an understandable soft layer of caution in the way they spoke.

"It's a pleasure seeing you again, Penguin."

"Is it?" Oswald questioned.

"Well, the last time we were all together in one room, we were at the hands of Salvatore Maroni and Fish Mooney." Falcone recollected almost fondly. He smiled politely towards Oswald, adding, "I suppose I owe you my gratitude for causing the necessary damage to enable my escape, as it were."

"Not at all." Oswald answered with a hard smile. "It was a real pleasure, believe me."

"Oh, I do."

Sylvia glanced between them as Mario approached her; the doctor held out his hand and she shook it.

"Well, here we are again," Mario joked.

"I know. We have to stop meeting like this, otherwise people will think we're in love." Sylvia teased.

Mario had a good laugh at that one, and he asked, "How's your brother?"

"Fair. Thanks for asking."

"Lee said he joined the GCPD."

"It was bound to happen," Sylvia said, shrugging. "Once a cop, always a cop."

"Identical to the phrase of 'once a criminal, always a criminal'. Mr. and Mrs. James have been pretty adamant about proving that," Mario cared to mention.

"Well, don't believe everything you hear."

"Must be difficult."

"What is?"

"Having the former Mayor and his wife slandering your name in all the newspapers," said Mario compassionately. "Have you read the articles?"

"A few." Sylvia acknowledged. "I don't pay much attention to her. Being humiliated is a hard thing to get used to—some people can't take it."

"Mario," Falcone interrupted their conversation politely, drawing his son's and Sylvia's attention to him, "Perhaps we should go over tonight's agenda. I'd like this party to go seamlessly well."

"Of course." Mario said, nodding. He took Sylvia's hand, adding, "Great seeing you again, Mrs. Cobblepot. Mr. Mayor..." He acknowledged Oswald respectfully, and then he headed into another hall of the restaurant with his father.

Sylvia looked at Oswald, who watched the pair for a brief second.

"Well, that wasn't awkward at all." She uttered quietly.

"Oh good, so it wasn't just me." Oswald joked, grinning at her.

"If it was awkward, why are you smiling like that?"

"Because I thought it was admirable."

"What part of that was admirable?" Sylvia asked, indicating the past interactions. "Mario was—"

"I'm not talking about _him_. I meant Carmine Falcone."

"What about _him_ then?"

"Like you said," Oswald said smoothly. "Some people can't take humiliation very well. That man" (he pointed in Falcone's direction) "is the exact opposite."

"Hm, I suppose you're right. You take all his businesses, save him from whatever it was that Maroni or Fish might've planned for him, and then he actually thanks you for it after all is said and done."

Oswald smiled, saying, "I can respect that."

"Me too."

"So, what did Mario say to you?"

"Not much." Sylvia uttered, rolling her eyes. "Gotta appreciate the facade though, pretending he actually cares about my brother when, really, he probably wants the guy cast off to a separate island and as far away as possible."

"How is that, now?"

"Anytime he mentions Jim, he has this 'fuck you' attitude towards me. It's really subtle though, so I can't really call him on it. It's really annoying."

Oswald chuckled, and rubbed the small of her back consolably.

" _Heyyy…."_

Oswald and Sylvia glanced at each other irritably as Alex made his way over. Just as he was, several other people were starting to file into the room. If Oswald had ever had the intention of intimidating Alex with violence, he would have to wait.

"So, we meet again," Alex joked, grinning widely at the both of them.

Sylvia felt Oswald's hand stay on the small of her back; instead of its consolable presence, there was a possessive feel to it, not that she expected anything different from him.

"How's it hangin', Pengy?" Alex said with a smug grin.

Oswald's eyes flashed dangerously.

Sylvia said patiently, "Alex, this is the _Mayor_ of Gotham. So, mind your manners, would you?"

"What?" Alex said innocently. "You know me, Sylvia. I like keeping things casual between all of us, like we used to, you know? What, after the whole Tetch incident, I feel like we just bonded through that type of shit crisis, you know. I feel like I've known this man my entire life!"

As though to prove a point, Alex started to wrap an arm around Oswald, who immediately flinched away from him angrily, glaring at him.

"Whoa! So touchy!" Alex poked fun, laughing loudly. "Dude, I was just—"

Alex opened his mouth to say something else and tried to move closer to Oswald but Sylvia stood in between them.

"Can I talk to you for a fucking second?" Sylvia said through gritted teeth.

"Well, I—"

" **Now?!** " Sylvia grabbed Alex by the collar of his suit and yanked it so Alex, who stood a foot taller than her, had to nearly crane his neck down so he didn't trip over his own two feet.

Oswald frowned as Sylvia dragged the man away, but he was relieved to be free of him. Five seconds more of his antagonizing, and he'd have used the idiot's insides as new wall paint.

Sylvia threw Alex forward and into a room that was specifically reserved for more private dinner parties. It was a pretty open space, enough to fit a gathering of ten people, and it served its purpose. Alex managed to find his bearings, quickly straightening his back so his previous excursion of being manhandled by a short woman might've gone unnoticed.

Angrily, Sylvia slammed the door shut.

"What is your fucking _problem_!" She demanded.

"Problem? I don't have a problem."

"Oh really? What were you doing a few minutes ago, then?"

"Greeting the 'Mayor of Gotham', evidently." Alex said, gesticulating the title dramatically.

"What's with the fucking sarcasm?"

"Just saying. The election was rigged."

"For once, it wasn't." Sylvia said pointedly. "And regardless, he _is_ the Mayor, so how about you try showing some fucking respect?"

"Well," Alex said cynically. "I tried showing some respect but clearly, you and him didn't appreciate it."

"Oh, you mean when you said 'how's it hanging, Pengy'?"

"Yeah."

" _That_ was your sign of respect?"

"Yes."

" _That_ was?"

"Yeah, duh."

"You are an idiot!" Sylvia snapped, gesturing to him.

"What's with the whole rich-stuffy look to him," Alex asked, crossing his arms. "He seems like the type to—"

"Don't finish that sentence." Sylvia ordered, glaring at him.

"What! Why're you pissed off?"

"Because you're a disrespectful fucking prick, _that's_ why. Forget the fact that he's the fucking Mayor of this city, but to have a complete and total disregard for your own fucking life is just so _stupid_. Do you have any idea what Oswald is _remotely_ capable of?" Sylvia questioned incredulously.

"Meh. He's a small guy. I can take him."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, shaking her hands as she said, "You know what. You're an idiot."

Alex sighed irritably, "So you keep saying."

"Because it's true."

"You know, maybe _he's_ an idiot."

" _What_ the fuck are you talking about?"

"Yeah. Evidently, you have a type." Alex said, pointing to himself proudly. "You used to like _me_ at one point. If I remember correctly, you couldn't keep your hands off me. You just kept wanting this big, fat dick. All. The. Time. Maybe uh…" He closed the distance between them with a casual strut. "Maybe that's why you're in this small room with me again, huh? Feeling a little...frisky, are we?"

"Oh, for the love of…" Sylvia scoffed. "You know what. Fuck you. If you want to lose your head because you want to keep vexing Oswald all night, _fine_. Have fun. Because _that's_ ultimately what's going to end up happening."

"So, what, you're trying to protect me?"

"Trying, but you're making it _really_ difficult."

"He's not going to do anything to me."

"You wanna bet!" Sylvia challenged.

Alex grinned. Sylvia frowned.

"You're going to end up getting yourself killed," She told him calmly.

"I thought you said those murders he committed were all hearsay."

"I'm the fucking First Lady of Gotham, married to the city's Mayor. So naturally, I'm not going to tell anyone 'oh, hey, by the way, he's still the fucking kingpin'. That's just bad PR. And I know you're a bit dim-witted, but even _you_ know those rumors are not _all_ rumors."

"That's almost a direct quote from the tabloids…"

"I know, I know. 'Gotham Gazette', 'Daily Gotham', all that crap."

"You should read some of the things that Aubrey James has said about Penguin…"

Sylvia exhaled exasperatedly, "Don't change the fucking subject."

Alex shrugged, "So I won't. Let's address what's _really_ going on, huh? You drag me into this room, tell me to stop poking fun of your little boyfriend—"

"— _Husband_ —"

"—Whatever. So, it makes me think you still like me. I was just gonna offer a little dessert on the side."

"Seriously, get your fucking mind out of the gutter. I brought you into this room to talk some fucking sense in you, because clearly you don't have enough to know when you're getting too close to the edge. That's the _only_ reason I'm trying to warn you now."

Alex smirked: "Is that _really_ all you wanted to say to me?"

Sylvia stepped closer to him, glaring up at him: " **Mind** me. You're not in fucking high school, remember? You can't just walk up to the first little person you see, bully them, and expect nothing to happen to you once the school yard lets out. If you keep picking on him, if you keep antagonizing him, he's going to lose his temper. And when he does—"

"He won't do _shit_ to me. He's a fucking penguin, for god's sake, I—"

"— **Hey!** I'm not going to be watching your back all the time, so you might want to start taking me fucking seriously, _Alex_."

"Well, how I figure it, the longer you keep talking to me, and watching me, the more you're gonna dig me in this suit. Might make those beautiful eyes of yours hungry enough. I hear business suits are like lingerie to women."

"On _some_ men, yes."

"Yeah, I guess seeing me in a suit and tie would make _me_ wet too…you know, if I had a pussy."

"Well, don't stake a claim on _not_ having one just yet because you're in luck." Sylvia told him callously.

"Oh, yeah? Do I get one? Mmmmmaybe yours…?"

"Nope. You don't _need_ one, and you don't _get_ one, because you simply _are_ a fucking pussy."

Sylvia grabbed the handle of the door, starting to open it. Alex slapped his hand against the door, so it slammed shut again. Slowly, Sylvia looked up at him, meeting his eyes.

"Let me out." She said coolly.

"Or what?"

"You don't want to know."

"Oh yeah? Maybe I do."

"No. You don't."

Alex nodded, and stepped away from the door: "You're right. Maybe I don't."

Sylvia rolled her eyes at him, muttering, " _Fucking_ prick."

She walked out of the room with Alex watching her with a dangerous gaze.

Sylvia strode to the bar. The bartender recognized her, gave her a drink on the House, and within seconds of receiving it, it was gone. The bartender filled it up, and Sylvia thanked her for it.

There was no accounting for how long she must've wasted her time trying to warn Alex about antagonizing Oswald. Perhaps it had been ten minutes, or maybe, from the crowd in the restaurant, it could have been as long as thirty minutes.

Sylvia remained at the bar. She wanted to find Oswald, but she had to clear her head first...The alcohol wasn't helping with that part, but it did extinguish the unexpected sense of guilt running through her.

No, she didn't love Alex. There wasn't a single part of her that did. But there was a certain type of feeling that came with dealing with an ex, particularly her first. Sylvia didn't have any romantic feelings for him, but despite the unruly debates that always seemed to take place between them, there was always that connection of having been a couple at one point or another. And while these days, Alex was a jealous thot, Sylvia still reflected fondly on the few memories she had with him prior to his sudden disappearance to make a name for himself.

It wasn't the first half of their relationship that left a bitter taste in Sylvia's mouth. It was the ending.

"Another one, please." Sylvia asked, thanking the bartender when a fourth shot was placed in front of her.

She'd have to sing in front of the crowd soon. Alex, Falcones, Lee…and all the capos that had been slowly watching her every move. All the people loyal to Falcone…if ever Falcone gave them the go-head, they'd have the manpower and ammunition to slaughter herself and Oswald here and now.

That was enough to make her nervous. More than, really.

After the fourth drink, she cut herself off.

She slowly walked through the room, hearing tidbits of people's conversations, and trying to get through the squander of bodies before she finally found her table. There, Oswald was sitting and, seeing her, he grinned as she sat across from him.

"Welcome back," Oswald joked.

"Glad to be back," Sylvia returned. She shakily exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Has Alex come back yet?"

"No," He answered lightly. "He hasn't."

"Good."

"Should I expect him to?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I'm sure your stern talking-to will be efficient enough to keep him at bay," Oswald offered calmly.

"I doubt it," Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes.

"I'm guessing the conversation didn't go quite as you had planned?"

"Of course not. He's a fucking prick."

"Duly noted." Oswald returned, smiling at her.

Sylvia glanced up to see the different captains of Falcone's past looking in their direction. The narrowed eyes, the stern frowns…She turned to see Oswald meeting their hard expressions with his own.

Oswald lowered his eyes from the pressing gazes of Falcone's captains to Sylvia, who seemed more or less distressed. She didn't say anything to convey her emotions, but the signs were there: her hands tearing and fidgeting with the napkin that had originally held her utensils; the corners of her lips were turned downward into a hard frown; and she frequently kept looking over her shoulder, either for the fact that Falcone's old team had not stopped staring at her, or because of the altercation she and Oswald had previously with Alex.

Not to mention that Sylvia was up to sing in about thirty minutes in front of all of them.

"Sylvia…" Oswald began.

She hummed shakily to herself, as though she was trying some self-meditation methods, but they weren't clearly working.

"Sylvia?"

"Hm-huh?" She responded, glancing at him. "What?"

"You need to calm down."

"How can I do that?" Sylvia asked. She looked over her shoulder to see the hard stares.

"Look at _me_ , not at them."

"But—"

"Do as I say."

Sylvia turned completely, meeting his eyes. Oswald's order had been spoken in the gentlest way possible, yet she did as he asked. He simply stood, and took her hand.

"Where are we going?" She asked uncertainly.

"I'd like you to come with me."

"But Oswald—"

"Trust me."

Sylvia bit her lip and whispered, "Okay…."

She followed Oswald but they were stopped yet again.

Unfortunately, by Alex.

"Hey, great party, huh?" Alex said carelessly, grinning at the two of them. He looked at Oswald curiously, asking, "I've got a question for you, _Mister_ Mayor. Have you ever thought about getting some lifts in those fancy shoes of yours?"

"Alex!" Sylvia hissed.

"You're just so short," Alex guffawed, gesturing to Oswald's height. "Like, I know _Sylvia's_ small, but girls are supposed to be small. But, man, you're like a hair taller, and only just."

Oswald turned a hard gaze on him, and said with a tone that matched his expression: "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Beals?"

"If you wanna give me like a thousand dollars, that'd be great."

"I will if it means you'd disappear off the face of the earth," Oswald offered curtly with a tight smile. "Then again, for that price, I'd gladly do the deed myself, free of charge."

Alex's eyebrows raised as soon as Oswald's patience had come and gone.

Sylvia said ironically, "Alex, do you have anything _better_ to do than talk to us?"

"I have something in mind but there's not a lot of talking involved." He hinted as he looked Sylvia up and down. "After the foreplay we had in the other room, I'm kinda ready for round 2, y'know. I got the Sylvia Virgin ten years ago; kinda curious what _Lark_ can do... _Gotta_ be dirty with _you_ at the wheel, huh?"

Oswald glowered at him; his lips tightly pursed. The hand that held Sylvia's squeezed as he kept her closer to him while the other was clenched into a fist. It was all too lucky for Alex that his cane was left back at the table, otherwise he'd made good use of the hidden knife inside of it. He had a retort ready to cut Alex down more than a few pegs, but there came a shout from the other side of the room.

" _Rooster_!"

Alex glanced over his shoulder to see who had been yelling for him. It was Falcone, who was gesturing him over.

"Let's talk about this when I get back, huh?" Alex said quickly, flashing a grin at them both before quickly pandering back to his master.

Sylvia heard Oswald growl and he continued to lead through them through the crowd, although a little less gently than he'd done prior to the idiot's approach.

"Oswald, what—"

Oswald opened the door closest to them although it wasn't a room like the one in which she had berated Alex. Instead, it was more of a closet—Sylvia was a bit taken aback to see that Oswald had chosen this seclusion rather than one of the rooms mentioned prior. After they'd come completely into the room, Oswald closed and locked the door.

This room was smaller. Just enough space for, perhaps, three people. Not much else. Inside was something of a sink and a basin in which one may wash buckets or rinse clothes, and a counter, which (apart from the bottle of hand soap) was bare.

"Why are we in this room?" asked Sylvia, confused.

"How much have you had to drink?" Oswald asked briskly, ignoring her question.

He was starting to unbutton his dress jacket, which he slung over the counter.

She answered, "A few shots. Why does that matter?"

"I just wanted to check."

"Check for wh—"

Her words were lost when Oswald assaulted her with a multitude of kisses. She took him in, keeping up with his fierce pace, even as it came as a shock. He pulled the gloves off his hands and put them on top of his coat, and then took in handfuls of her dress, lifting the hem above her thighs. Without much provocation, Sylvia instinctively moved back against and then onto the counter, stifling a moan when she felt his hand ghost over the front of her underwear as he pawed and grabbed every part of her that he could.

She heard him growl ' _mine_ ' and it vaguely registered in her mind why this was happening. Perhaps it'd started as a way for her to relax, but after Alex's goading, Oswald was in his prime.

As he rubbed her clit through her underwear, Sylvia let out an involuntarily loud moan.

He clamped a hand over her mouth, and said haggardly, "You have to be _quiet,_ Pet."

She nodded eagerly, and even with her understanding his hand remained as a precaution.

She heard the clatter of his belt as he undid the clasp, his pants and boxers drop, and the alcohol filled urgency within her caught up to his predatory advances—his hard, naked cock rubbing against her silk panties.

He lowered the hand from her mouth so he could grab her butt and move her closer to the edge of the countertop, obtaining the access needed to put some friction between them. Even now, Sylvia could feel the pleasure shocks move throughout her body—seeing his desire come out in a such a spontaneous, unprecedented way…

But there were people outside. She could hear them talking.

"Oswald, we can't—"

" _Shut up."_

He took her breath away as he moved the front of her panties to the side and teased her slick entrance with his cockhead.

"What _is_ our Lark capable of, _he_ wonders," Oswald growled.

Sylvia moaned as he dipped his fingers into her pussy, curling them in the exact place she wanted. She tried to move, to sit up more and get back that delicious friction, but Oswald pushed her down on her back. A loud whine escaped her as Oswald rubbed her clit with his thumb of the same hand.

"You need to stay quiet, Pigeon…"

"How _can_ I?" Sylvia exclaimed desperately.

Oswald watched her sit up as the rest of her body gyrated against his hand. He pulled his fingers out of her, watching her glazed over eyes look at him in a way he suspected that Alex had never seen her. It was a powerful feeling.

He lifted his fingers to her lips. Sylvia grabbed his wrist and quickly took them into her mouth, tasting herself. Oswald held the small of her back as he slowly pushed his cock inside of her.

They both moaned in relief. As she had his fingers to suck and to silence her quaking sounds of desire, Oswald lowered his lips to her ear, kissing, licking…whispering in the midst of his heat and lust.

With his cock thrusting into her roughly and his fingers in her mouth, Sylvia was losing her self-restraint, the urge to scream in pleasure…she was on the brink of it, and so close…

"Fuck… _fuck_!" Sylvia moaned.

Oswald grinned in spite of himself, feeling her pussy tighten around him. He was already so close to coming. Her thighs shaking and trembling, her breath shallow and ragged as she tried her best to stay quiet. Oswald pulled out of her suddenly, and Sylvia was about to question it before he pulled her off the counter and then bent her over it. He pulled her dress up, gathering it into a handful and Sylvia grabbed it and held it, keeping her hands in front of her.

Half-haphazardly, he pulled down her underwear above her knees, and in one slick movement, he started to fuck her from behind, one hand bracing himself against the counter while he held the other one to her mouth as he listened to her screams being muffled by his palm. Her hands sprawled out below her, knuckles white as they clenched into fists.

"You're just a beautiful little slut, aren't you," Oswald grunted. "All dressed up for _me_."

Sylvia nodded eagerly, moaning louder when his thrusts became harder, deeper. Her hand lifted to the one around her mouth, her fingers wrapped around his wrist as he burrowed deep inside. Her eyelashes fluttered as her eyes rolled into the back of her head, feeling that gut shot of spine-tingling pleasure run up and throughout her entire body.

He came inside of her, groaning in relief as he did. A few more sharp thrusts tilted her over the edge.

He felt her come around his cock, her body nearly convulsing into a delightful tremor. Oswald held her in his arms, keeping her from falling to the floor. He lowered his hand to her clit, slowly rubbing it in circles and smirking when she reached down and tried to stop him.

"You may not want it, but _she_ does." Oswald told her darkly.

Sylvia whimpered as he grabbed her hands and forced them together and restrained them against her chest; he leaned his back against the counter, keeping her close to him. She threatened to close her legs, but he pushed them apart.

Slowly, he rubbed her swollen clit, whispering, "Are you my good girl, Pigeon?"

Sylvia nodded as she let out a quiet, reluctant cry.

"Would you do anything for me?"

She quickly nodded, biting her lip when he slipped a finger inside her wet pussy, slowly moving it in and out while his thumb rubbed her clit lightly up and down.

"Then listen to me."

"Yes, sir." Sylvia panted.

"In ten minutes," Oswald said softly, "You are going to go on stage." (He rubbed her clit in quick concentric circles.) "You are going to sing as you always do for me on any other Friday evening—"

"Oswald, it's too much, I can't—" Sylvia squeaked as he quickened his pace.

"—And you will do well, no matter _who_ is in the audience," He continued as though he hadn't heard her. "Be it Falcone, his captains, or your _fucking_ ex." (On the word, he rubbed her clit hard and her scream was cut short to a stifled gasp.)

She came again on his hand, and he smirked as her head reclined back on his shoulder. She steadily gathered her breath and looked at him with heavy, hooded eyes. As she slowly descended back to Earth, he affectionately rubbed her thigh in gentle strokes.

"Our Lark is capable of many things," Oswald uttered lovingly. "And that includes driving me to murder your former lover whom I'll more than readily execute should he continue to vex me."

As she straightened her dress, Oswald pulled his pants back up and buckled his belt. After, Oswald pressed her back against the counter, caressing her face in his hands as he kissed her gently on the lips. Sylvia returned it slowly.

To Alex's unfortunate credit, she said quietly, "He's just an idiot, Ozzie."

"Well, it would be stupid of me to disagree."

"I've spoken to him already…"

"All you have done is prolong what is inevitable when it comes to dealing with the likes of him." Oswald told her calmly. "I can question all the insurmountable reasons as to why you're trying to protect him. For the betterment of our marriage, I'll put that conversation in abeyance."

She smiled gratefully, happy to know that while he wasn't naïve as to why she was trying to keep Alex alive, he wasn't angered by it.

Oswald's eyes darkened though as he said collectively, "I won't hurt him tonight. But just so we are clear, should I feel that Beals has tested the last of my patience, not even _you_ will be able to save him."

Sylvia looked at him dolefully, saying, "Duly noted."

Satisfied with her response, he kissed her tenderly and she returned it.


	42. The Truce

Chapter Forty-Two: The Truce

* * *

Discreetly, Oswald and Sylvia exited the broom closet once they'd gathered themselves back to a decent composure. Although the flushed tint in her face hadn't faded completely, the people in the room could only surmise that Sylvia's blush was due to her nerves…despite the fact that anyone who'd ever seen her perform could wager that she'd never been nervous a day in her life.

Sylvia and Oswald parted ways: he, to his seat at his reserved table; she, to the stage. From his seat, Oswald admired how Sylvia gracefully stepped to and steadily grabbed the microphone from its perch; her eyes searched the crowd in a subtle panic, something only the people who knew her so well would have been able to catch.

As expected, no one was the wiser.

"Hello, everyone," Sylvia greeted with a smile. "I'd like to think I came to the party to talk to everyone here but that'd make me a liar, wouldn't it?"

Everyone in the restaurant tittered, including the Falcones, and Lee.

Sylvia's smile widened as her eyes met with the latter.

Lee was enchanting. She wore a long, princess-like, scarlet dress.

"Leslie Thompkins," Sylvia said lightly, smiling at the woman who smiled back at her. "I haven't known you for a long time; what, maybe a year, at the most? In Gotham years, that's like a lifetime, you know."

Natives to Gotham gave an appreciative nervous chuckle of agreement.

"You are a smart woman, kind, sweet…" Sylvia continued. "So sweet, actually, that it sometimes drives me a little crazy." (Lee laughed at that.) "All that said, you deserve to be happy. And if Mario makes you happy, well, who am I to stand in the path of what might be love?"

There was a pause in the atmosphere, one that Oswald detected was due to Mario's wavering frown. After, Sylvia put the microphone back on its perch, and explained to the crowd that she would sing a song as requested by the soon-to-be Bride's father-in-law. This song, as it were, was ' _Por Ti Volare_ '.

As she sang, the audience was captured by her voice. Oswald was enchanted; if all of these people were on a ship in the middle of the ocean, they'd have easily steered it in the siren's direction, and shipwrecked.

" _You must be very proud._ "

Oswald glanced from Sylvia when he heard the familiar voice, its owner being Carmine Falcone. Oswald didn't dignify the obvious question with such an answer, only noting that Falcone gave Sylvia's seat a polite nod. A silent question for a nonverbal invitation; Oswald granted it to him, gesturing for him to take it.

"This is our second time meeting tonight," Falcone pointed out, amused.

Falcone, who had been enlightened to hear Sylvia sing again, now turned his gaze from the stage to Oswald, who hadn't lost his suspicious gaze for a single second. Falcone leaned forward; fingers interlaced on the table once he did.

"I hardly call it a 'coincidence'." Oswald continued coolly.

"I'm not ignorant, young man." Falcone said with a gentle smile. "I know why Sylvia brought you with her."

"As her plus-one, you mean."

"No. As her protection."

Oswald didn't bother to hide Sylvia's ulterior motive for bringing him along. Not that he ever had the intention of doing so. After all, Falcone wasn't some oddity; there was a reason he'd remained the alpha Don for thirty years. Oswald readily began to defend her—Falcone had all his familiar captains lined up strategically around the restaurant, and he didn't think Sylvia would find it a little unsettling?

"I'm not debasing her if that's what you believe," Falcone said apologetically, smiling. (Oswald drew back, disarmed.) "It was a smart move on her part. I didn't dare expect anything less of her. So that brings us to the reason as to why I'm sitting here, at your table."

Falcone cleared his throat quietly, as though the topic that he was about to approach would not be an easy one. In fact, it was far from it.

"I've spoken to Lark," Falcone said gingerly. "Over the weekend, she mentioned to me…some of the most _unspeakable_ events to have happened to your family in the past, one of which I find most unforgivable. I've lost people dear to me as I know you have as well…"

Oswald thought of Csilla and his mother. A familiar aching pang in his heart had come back, resurrected. He lowered his gaze from Falcone—he didn't want to seem weak in front of his former mentor, but the pain still lingered. He supposed that it would never fully heal, but what was the point of reopening wounds? Was it to hurt him?

"I came here partly in hope of a treaty, a _truce_ , if you will."

Oswald glanced at Falcone, saying, "A 'truce'?"

"Yes, a 'truce'."

"A truce regarding what, exactly?"

"She graciously hosted this engagement party as part of a deal. Her payment was—"

"A favor from you," Oswald finished, gesturing to him.

Falcone smirked, saying, "I expected she might have told you."

"To her credit, I did have to ask. But why, pray tell, _tell_ me now?"

"Whatever the papers may say, I know that what our former mayor and his wife say about you is all too true," Falcone said lowly. "You are the Mayor of the city, but I know your real job is still controlling the Underworld, is it not?"

Oswald didn't confirm nor deny his claim, but Falcone registered his aim was direct when Oswald smiled knowingly at him.

"This favor I promised Lark," Falcone said lightly, "is not something I will easily retract. She asked it over money—something I'm sure she's learned from _you_." (Oswald smiled proudly at him.) "No doubt she will come to collect when all of her other resources have been tapped out. For this reason, I come to you, not as myself, but as a man…From one father to another."

Oswald's eyes widened, but not out of surprise. It wasn't often that he felt a familial connection to anyone, aside from Ed, Jim, or Sylvia. But the words spoken to him by Falcone who'd sat in the same seat…It registered easily with him.

Falcone continued: "It's not a secret that Detective Jim Gordon and Lee Thompkins were once engaged. I can understand Sylvia's reluctance for Lee to marry my son. On that note, she did not express a high opinion of my daughter either. All that said, I'd like a truce between us, Penguin. One of mutual respect and honor."

"And that is?"

"In no way, shape, or form will Sylvia harm my children. Whatever the favor, I will grant it to her, but should she try to harm either my son or my daughter, the same law I laid down _years_ ago will no longer apply. The same deal I made with you about her safety will be extricated immediately." Falcone said seriously, his eyes looking directly at Sylvia then to Oswald for confirmation of clarity.

Oswald shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"Telling me about Fish Mooney's ulterior motive to take the empire away from me," Falcone reminded. "In exchange, I promised to not harm Lark, and I gave the job of killing you to Jim Gordon…"

"I'm aware of the deal," Oswald said hastily. "But you must know. Sylvia isn't someone who can be reeled in once she's made up her mind. Once she's convinced herself of a task, there's very little chance of undermining her determination."

"That may be. In return, you must know this. Most people may be ignorant to her practices, but I know a dangerous woman when I see one. I have specific instructions laid in place, a will and testament drafted with my legal staff, which I accomplished shortly after your wife left the South. Should she attempt to hurt either Mario or Sofia, those instructions will be enacted to all the sleeper agents I have placed around this city. Not to undermine _your_ determination, young man, but despite what hold you have on this city as its current Kingpin, there are a few who still look to _me_ for guidance and reassurance of the old days."

Oswald frowned and said coolly, "You're threatening me, is that it?"

"Cautioning."

"Or is it a foreshadowing of your inevitable return back to Gotham."

"No, no, no. I'm done with this city. I loved it once, but times have changed. I've retired." Falcone promised with a sigh. "I came to you because I know you and I see eye-to-eye. And the truce in not so many words is that as long as your wife doesn't hurt my children, my sleeper agents in Gotham will lie dormant, and will have no reason to attack _her_. I highly doubt that this situation would come about, but it's an overt precaution, as you can understand…Lark is fairly protective of her brother, and having Lee and Mario together…She might be willing to make it harder for them to be together because of this."

"Not to aggravate the circumstances," Oswald said pointedly, "but why have them all target her?"

"Ah, you're wondering 'why not me instead'? After all, you have the men, the power, the guns…"

"Yes."

"Simple." Falcone uttered. He stood, straightening his jacket and buttoning the third one down from the top. "I know she will do anything to protect you; I'm sure that would even include harming her own kin. She'll do anything, and that includes pushing you out of the line of fire, even if it meant her own death. Again, I am not debasing that type of trait; it's admirable, if not romantic."

He said sternly, "And just as she will do everything in her power to protect you, I know there is nothing you wouldn't do to protect her. That said, _that_ is why all my agents are projected to come after her should she go after any of _my_ kin. It is my hope that you will do everything in your power to dissuade her from pursuing such a task. You're the only person who could come close in being able to control her.

"The truce, Mr. Mayor, is simple: If your family does not harm mine; mine will not harm yours. The goal here is peace."

"If you want peace, you must have war." Oswald reminded him.

"A true statement. I believe I told _you_ that."

"You have. More than once, actually."

"Do we have a deal?" Falcone asked.

"Of course."

"I'm glad to hear it."

The Don held out his hand. Oswald shook it firmly. Falcone glanced back at the stage as Sylvia finished singing and was welcomed with a wave of applause; the music overhead now played so she could get off the stage and let the stereo system do the rest of the leg work.

"She really is an interesting woman," Falcone uttered admirably. He smiled at Oswald, adding, "A dangerous weapon, I imagine."

Oswald smiled fondly: "All true, but she's more than that. At least, to me."

Falcone bowed his head to him respectfully, agreeing with him. And then he left the table.


	43. Parties Such As These

Chapter Forty-Three: Parties Such As These

* * *

Author's Note: To C.S. Allen: Unfortunately, I couldn't respond to your review because replying to Guest reviews aren't a thing on ffnet. However, I'd be remiss if I didn't give you a proper thank you for such kind words. I won't reveal anything that I have planned, but I will say that for Jack and Joel, I have plans that do follow your way of thinking. And for Gabriel as well. Thank you for your valuable insight, and that huge review 😊 It's appreciated!

* * *

With her song all sung and their congratulations given to Lee and Mario, Sylvia was ready to head out the door. In owing to make the party and just the general special occasion of being 'out' last, Oswald offered that they stay a little longer.

"Why?" Sylvia asked.

"At a party like this, something interesting is bound to happen."

"That's an odd thing to say, but fine then." Sylvia surrendered. "But if we're going to stay here, I can't afford to sit so far away from you."

She slid her chair from its position opposite of Oswald and placed it directly beside him. He momentarily surveyed her actions with one of curiosity and flattery.

As she sat, she bent forward, popping her heels off her feet; a painful sigh followed soon after.

"Fucking shoes," Sylvia mumbled. "You're right. I should've worn flats."

"I told you so."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you told me so."

"Well, I did."

"Yep, keep gloating about it, Mister. See what _that_ gets you later tonight." Sylvia teased, smirking when his eyebrows lifted in surprise when her comment had sexual implications.

Together, she and Oswald observed the crowd. There were several people here, but none of them (aside from Falcone's former mob associates) seemed remotely familiar. Men and women all dressed up and had come to see the marvelous duo, but who _were_ they? Even then, Oswald speculated that some of them were the 'sleeper agents' that Falcone had namely mentioned the half-hour ago.

He doubted there would come a time where Sylvia might go after Mario, even though the man generated an irksome aura within her…and was dating and about to marry the woman that could have been well-matched for her brother…and…

Oswald sighed. Well, he could foresee a time that Sylvia might very well want to go after Mario Calvi, after all. Still, he knew how well he could manipulate her to do his own bidding, or dissuade her from acting so impulsively just as long as her mind wasn't fully made up… For the most part…

"You're in deep thought." Sylvia sighed candidly, smiling when Oswald looked at her, startled.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

Oswald smiled guiltily: "Nothing much."

"That's hard to believe." Sylvia mused slyly. "With a mind like yours?"

 _Ooh_ , _compliments_. Oswald's body warmed anytime she gave those. The session back in the broom closet hadn't been enough for either of them, a quickie at best. It offered little reprieve for the desire that always lingered when he was around her, but as she sat so close to him, what they did in that small, tight room replayed in his mind.

A waiter came by, offering a platter topped with champagne glasses. Sylvia took one, thanking him sweetly.

There was a _tink, tink, tink_ as someone tapped a silver spoon against a champagne glass. Oswald and Sylvia both glanced in that direction, noticing that Mario was prepared to make a toast. Oswald smirked when he heard Sylvia's scoff of disinterest.

Sylvia tipped the champagne glass all the way back, draining it of its pale contents. When the last drop hit her throat, Sylvia placed it back on the table, licking her lips.

"Falcone didn't spare any expense, catering wise." She noted. She lifted the empty glass: "It's imported."

"All the palatable ones _are_."

Mario's toast became a blended noise in the background, like an apparition in the dark.

Sylvia smirked at his know-it-all tone: "Oh, excuse _me_. I forgot that only the most delectable of things would ever have the _privilege_ of reaching that tongue of yours. I guess wine is the only thing that could, huh?"

Oswald lowered his hand beneath the table, ghosting his fingers up her thighs as he reminded her softly, "It's not the _only_ thing, Pet."

Two fingers probed the heat between them and Sylvia gasped in both sudden arousal and surprise.

When the shock wore off as he gently stroked her right knee with his left hand, Sylvia whispered, "You're awfully frisky tonight."

"If you keep goading me on, you'll see where that gets you."

"I can bet _what_ it will get me."

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

"You wouldn't?"

"I wouldn't."

"So, what _would_ you do if you were me?" Sylvia questioned smartly.

Her tone was insolent. If they were talking about anything else other than the obvious, Oswald would've become punitive. But for where this conversation might lead, he was nothing but titillated.

"If I was in your position, I would try to practice a little subtlety." Oswald offered.

"Come on, it was one thing to do it in a closet. There are people _around_ us. See, look. There's someone right there." She pointed to a random nobody who stood about five feet from where they sat. "They'd notice. You couldn't get away with something like _that_ , seriously, I mean…"

Oswald smirked. It was a miracle when he could see Sylvia's modesty peep out from behind her usual brash, crude, and overall confident personality. For now, his hand on her leg was tame, but the impulse to see just how well she could hide it…It was too good to pass up.

Sylvia had continued to ramble on nervously, even as the dinner dishes were being served to the rest of the patrons on admirably large platters. He ignored the waiters that came by with fresh glasses of champagne and kept his eyes only on her. She'd continued to talk until she felt his hand slowly run up her thigh, and then his fingers curled to cup and massage the source of her heat.

His movements were discreet: slow and almost invisible, to everyone except themselves.

"What has gotten into you…" Sylvia spoke in a voice lower than a whisper.

"You can stop me if you want." Oswald reminded her quietly.

As he said it, his facial expression appeared indifferent, for save the underlying smugness. He took his champagne glass in his right hand while the other never stopped stroking her clothed heat; the position in which they sat provided the right angle for the bystanders to believe his hand might have just been preoccupied with holding hers but under the dining cloth, he was slowly driving Sylvia to desperation.

She bit her bottom lip, her breaths coming out in shallow gasps.

And Oswald felt his body glow in satisfaction.

Let everyone look at her; let them wish they'd seen her first. Hell, let Alex make those comments to her about how he was better than _him_. Oswald couldn't care. In minutes, he could have Sylvia all over him and never say anything more than a few whispers, or touch her in such a way that was rough.

She was doing so well, too. He had to give her props. Oswald surveyed Sylvia's expression as one of yearning, all too much like desperation but not for it to end, but for him to keep teasing her. One of her hands grabbed the edge of the table while the other remained determined to bury her nails into his thigh.

Aside from her occasional stifled gasps of pleasure and the flush of color along her neck and cheeks, she had a mask.

Oswald leaned into her, kissing the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Are you ready, Pet?"

"Ready…Ready for _what_?" Sylvia managed lowly, although he could see how her eyes flickered with panic.

Her clit was swollen, enough that he could feel it through the layers of her underwear and her dress. His thumb pressed against it, then rolled between the line of his index and middle finger. Sylvia closed her eyes tightly, her jaw clenching.

"You need to come, don't you?" Oswald asked pointedly.

"No…"

"'No'?"

He heard her answer and was simultaneously baffled and entertained by it. He'd never seen her so desperate for her release.

" _No_." Sylvia whispered vehemently. "Not _here_."

"Is that what you want?"

"Not…not necessarily, but I can't stay quiet for that."

"Not even at the risk of embarrassing yourself?"

" _Especially_ not for that." Sylvia managed, stifling her involuntary moan when he slid his fingers into the source of her unquenchable heat, feeling the slickness of her excitement having completely soaked her underwear; it was a surprise to him that it hadn't wet her dress just yet.

"Do you want me to take care of it later tonight?" Oswald asked softly; he kissed her cheek, then licked her earlobe which pulled another shaky gasp from her.

" _Please_." Sylvia begged.

"Fine then." Oswald considered.

Her sigh came out in a mixture of reluctance and gratitude.

Oswald unrolled his napkin which held his eating utensils, took a bite of the chicken on his plate, and gave it a shrug of indifference as if he hadn't just been teasing her under the table. Sylvia rolled her eyes derisively, standing up.

"Where are you going?" Oswald asked curiously.

"To the bathroom. I think there's one over near the bar." Sylvia uttered breathlessly.

He was feeling pretty smug until he watched her hands start at the crevice of her hips and slowly run down her legs. At the foot of her dress, she balled something into her hands and leaning over to him; Oswald felt her hand reach into the pocket of his pants and slide her panties inside of them.

"A memento for your efforts, Sweetheart. God knows _I_ don't need them anymore."

She kissed him on the lips, forcing her tongue past them to meet his own.

He felt her hand brazenly lower from his belt; below the table, her hand fondled the tight bulge in his pants.

" _When_ you take care of me tonight," She purred, "I'll be sure to take care of _you_."

Sylvia kissed him again and she smiled sheepishly when he looked back at her with his own wanton expression. Then she left for the bathroom.

Oswald let out a long, shaky sigh. Just when he thought he was getting the best of her; she'd always turn it around and do the same to him.

Falcone said she was a weapon. Oswald knew this; he'd used the same verbiage to describe her once or twice before. As he attested, Sylvia was so much more to him than that.

"More like a double-edged sword." He murmured admirably.

* * *

Sylvia opened the door to the public restroom, glancing at the 'girl' sign briefly and chuckling when someone had colored the usual black 'hair' of the symbol to a more reddish hue. Perhaps it was marker, maybe it was rust. Who knew?

She stood in the restroom; her frame hung over one of the bathroom sinks as she closed her eyes. It had literally taken all of her will power not to give into Oswald.

The things he could do to her…

She cradled her hand to her chest, steadily catching her breath. After a moment, she grabbed a few paper towels from the manual dispenser, collectively wiping the sweat from her neck. As an afterthought, Sylvia took one of the stalls, wrapping the toilet paper around her hand. A few steady wipes up her thighs cleaned herself from the results of Oswald's mild efforts.

She inadvertently touched her clit in the process and a loud, involuntary moan escaped her.

 _Fuck,_ she was tender.

The rest of the task was done easily and Sylvia left the stall, washing her hands in the sink. As she did, the door opened. She glanced at the reflection approaching her, smiling when she saw Lee, although she looked less than appeased.

"I know _that_ look," Sylvia said playfully.

As though Lee had just realized she hadn't been the only occupant in the restroom, she jumped a little and smiled apologetically when she saw who else was in here with her.

"I just ran into Barbara." Lee explained, annoyed.

"Kean?"

"Do you know another Barbara?"

"No, unless there are two of them."

"Wouldn't that be a nightmare," Lee chirped. She gave her appearance an overall beauty check.

"So, you escaped?" Sylvia asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the sink.

"What?"

"Well, you're not here to prim your makeup or taking a piss, it seems," Sylvia offered, gesturing to her presence (Lee cracked an embarrassed smile at her phrasing.). "The only other reason a woman might scurry off to the bathroom is to avoid someone…normally, it's a guy. From your reaction, I'm guessing Barbara wasn't invited?"

"Try 'blacklisted'."

"So how did she get past all those _wonderful_ security guards?"

"I don't know." Lee said unhappily, shaking her head. "I told Mario that he wouldn't be able to keep everyone out."

"That's funny."

"What is?"

"Because that's what I told his dad," Sylvia giggled.

Lee rolled her eyes in what was playful annoyance this time around and the women both scoffed adoringly, " _Men_."

Lee gave Sylvia a once-over and said sweetly, "I'm glad you came. That was a nice little speech you gave earlier."

"I guess. It wasn't rehearsed."

"I doubt anything you say ever is."

"Well, you're right then."

"Sylvia…"

"Hm?"

Lee bit the inside of her cheek thoughtfully but approached her with a brief expression of suspicion. There was a brief moment where Sylvia thought Lee might actually attack her for whatever reason. Or maybe that was the champagne arming itself against its contender, but Sylvia felt something aggressive coming off her. Yet, Lee smiled affectionately.

"Your comment about Mario and I having what 'might be' love…That wasn't a shot at him, was it?"

Sylvia shrugged saying, "You're not blind. You're not deaf. And you're not dumb. Someone like you should know that I always wanted you and Jim to be together. In fact, I think you _should_ be and that you _could_ be if you gave him a chance."

Lee shook her head: "There used to be a time when I thought we could be…but I love Mario now."

Sylvia touched Lee's shoulder, her fingertips grazing the skin with a gentle if not loving stroke as she said, "So you say."

Lee frowned: "You don't think I do?"

"Oh, it's not that I don't think you _do_. You're just trying to convince yourself that you love him _more_ than you still love my brother."

"I believe I do love Mario more."

Sylvia said softly, "I believe you think that."

After a second where Lee looked as though she might argue, her fealty came to collect. Instead of debating this topic with a known result that Sylvia would always have something smart to retort, Lee surrendered and she hugged her.

"Thanks again for making this happen," Lee said gratefully. "The decorations look amazing."

Sylvia grinned happily at her compliment just as Lee turned to leave the bathroom.

* * *

Sylvia walked back into the party, rethinking the compliment that Lee had bestowed on her. She visited the bar again, smiling when the bartender went ahead and offered her a dry martini, saying that it was already paid for.

"Who paid for it?" She inquired.

The bartender secretively peered over Sylvia's shoulder, and eyed the guest in question. It wasn't any surprise to her when Alex popped up in front of her, smiling just as widely as he'd been doing all night. He straightened his jacket as he sat on a pew beside her.

The bartender grinned sweetly at the both of them.

"So, you're in cahoots with the staff, huh?" Sylvia questioned.

"Nah, I just told her that the next time you came up here, I'd pay for whatever it was that you wanted." Alex said smoothly. He rubbed his chin, adding, "I remembered you used to be a wine person."

"And once again, you're incorrect." Sylvia returned patiently. She smirked. "Don't you ever get tired of being wrong all the time?"

"Not if it means I don't get into another argument with you."

"So, you'll be wrong all the time _just_ to pacify me, is that it?"

"Is that what you want to hear."

"Frankly, no." Sylvia answered truthfully. She took a drink from her small glass, licked the remnants of it from her lips.

"You're pretty calm right now."

"Well, I got laid earlier." She said casually.

Alex gaped at her, but she had nothing else to say about it.

All the while, Alex watched her. Amused, if not impressed. What exactly impressed him was beyond her comprehension, not that she could spare much thought for someone like him anymore.

"Can I ask you a question, Sylvie?"

"You know, I only let you call me 'Sylvie' because we had history, right?"

"I appreciate the gesture."

"Hm."

"So, can I ask that question?"

"Is it about Oswald?"

"No."

"Is it about my family?"

"No…"

"Or my job?"

"No."

"Is it about you?" Sylvia asked.

Alex snickered, "Honestly, I didn't intend on you and I to play some kind of guessing game. I was just gonna ask why you look so pretty tonight."

"I look pretty tonight because it's a default. I'm pretty any other night, including this one."

"What about me?"

"What _about_ you?"

"Do I seem…I don't know…handsome to you?"

"Tonight, or do you mean any other night?"

"At all."

Sylvia's eyebrow quirked up at the interesting tone in which Alex spoke. It wasn't one that became of him, nothing too characteristic about him at all. Maybe that's why it piqued her interest, if only just a little. The sound in his voice was so strange because it lacked its usual confidence; he almost sounded… _insecure_.

"I have no wish to satisfy your already balloon-sized ego, Alex."

"I'm not asking you to."

"You're asking me a question that might if I told you the truth."

"So, you _do_ think I'm still handsome?"

"Yes, but any girl would. Or guy."

Alex crossed his arms on the bar, his eyes staring a hole into the counter as he pressed his mind for another thought. Or maybe he just didn't want to say what was on his mind. After all, anything that had crossed it had thus far either insulted or angered her. Sylvia watched him as she sipped her martini. Honestly, she'd been ready to leave at this point, and she'd have gone already if it weren't for the fact that Alex was acting so odd.

"You're acting different," Sylvia noticed, inclining her head in his direction to note the obvious. "What the fuck is the matter with you?"

"Falcone."

"Who?"

"You know… _Falcone_."

"I know. Which one, and why." Sylvia questioned.

"My boss."

"He spoke to you."

"Yeah. About you. And Mr. Cobblepot."

Sylvia gasped, "Whoa, ' _Mister_ Cobblepot'. Goddamn, that must've been one hell of a conversation to make you pull a full 180-degrees like that."

"Something like that." Alex muttered, embarrassed. "It wasn't the best conversation."

"Wanna tell me what it was about?"

"Not really."

"What if I could guess?"

"I'm not much into guessing games."

"Well, fuck you, Alex. _I_ am, so if you want to keep talking to me, you'll play my game right now."

Alex glanced at her; eyebrows raised in what could only be described as impressive indignation. But the way she was acting towards him was in a light better than how he'd received her company earlier, so he took his lumps and nodded, responding with a much reluctant but agreeable "fine then".

She turned around on the pew on which she sat. As she did, Alex did the same, trying to follow her exact movements which had steadily become suspicious, even to him.

After a moment of searching the guests, Sylvia smirked as she met eyes with Carmine Falcone, who curiously peered at her with interest. During this time, she raised her hands up and moved them as she 'spoke' in sign language. Alex watched, intrigued, glancing at Falcone, who, surprisingly, responded with the ASL alphabet in quick, agile fluency. Sylvia smiled gratefully then turned back around, taking a drink from her martini.

"What the hell was that?" Alex questioned, flabbergasted.

"Sign language."

"Obviously, but what did—how did you know he…"

"He knows it for the same reason I do," Sylvia stated nonchalantly, licking her lips. She looked at Alex humorously: "To understand the Paddock Family. Isaac is deaf."

"Who?"

"He's the Head of the Family."

"Oh. Yeah, I _knew_ that…ahem…obviously."

Sylvia smirked at him: "You don't know who any of the Five Families _are_ , do you, Alex?"

"Well, I'm down here, aren't I?"

"Technically, you're _up_ here. In Gotham, remember? You're not down South, but don't worry. I can see how you were easily confused."

Alex frowned: "You know you're really cute when you're being condescending."

"I know I can be. It's what makes staying angry at me _so_ hard. Anyway, don't feel bad. Not a lot of people know Isaac is deaf. He's hard of hearing, legally, at least. But he doesn't talk. And he doesn't hear. Half the time, he's gotta sense the room, which he can do all of that. He's a perceptive dude, really."

"Oh…"

"Yep."

Alex ran a hand through his hair nervously.

"You uh…you _learned_ all that?" He asked. "All that hand stuff…Like for your job?"

"Not in so many words, but yes." Sylvia said softly.

"Huh. What else do you know?"

"I can speak French."

"You can?"

"Fluently."

"So can _he_?"

"You mean 'Oswald'?"

"Yeah."

"Yes, he can."

"Does he know that hand talk too?"

"No, but he knows bits and pieces, not that he needs to learn it. That's why he has _me_."

"So, you learn all that crap for _him_?"

Sylvia said smartly, "Yes, it's amazing what I do for the people I love. If you hadn't left Gotham, you might've been able to see that too. But then again, you had your priorities to take care of; evidently, I was either on the bottom of that list or not at all."

Alex winced at her cynical tone. It was a lot easier to take her words if they were bathed in fire and being thrown at them. Instead, in her cool, calm, collected tone, they were dipped in poison, and penetrated his skin slowly. Sadistically.

"So…So…" Alex started uncertainly. He looked over his shoulder at Falcone and quickly changed the subject: "So…uh…What did Falcone say, huh?"

"He told you to stop annoying my husband, and if you didn't, he'd fire you." Sylvia guessed, smirking when Alex gaped at her.

"How did you—"

"—Falcone is about keeping the peace between his family and ours." She revealed, gesturing to where Falcone stood, talking to who apparently was Captain Barnes, and then to Oswald, who stood, talking to a few strangers. "It'd be a crime shame, literally, if Falcone's staff started pestering the very people who actually now run his city. It's an unnecessary expenditure of energy to all involved, including the person who is doing the actually pestering. Namely, _you_."

Alex rolled his eyes, shook his head, but he smiled with an incredible amount of embarrassment which Sylvia could appreciate.

"You hate me now, don't you?" he asked.

"Hate is a _very_ strong word. I don't hate you."

"That's good to hear."

"Oswald might, though." Sylvia reconsidered, shrugging her right shoulder. "In fact, I think he might just kill you one day. He'll put your body in a body bag, not thinking twice about it. I'd be surprised if one day he actually goes through with it—because he likely won't tell me when he does until _way_ after the fact. Odds are, he'd probably end up stabbing you since you'd probably make it personal. Stabbing is his go-to if people piss him off; otherwise, he's fond of either shooting them, or just letting Victor do it. Victor doesn't care for stabbing; _he_ prefers bullets. It's one of the things we argue about, actually."

Alex still stared at Sylvia. A number of emotions flickered over his handsome face. First it was surprise, then it was a mixture of anger and revulsion. Once Sylvia started rambling about Oswald's go-tos, all Alex could do was gaze at her with mild amusement and admiration.

"Personally," Sylvia offered openly, "I prefer a more intimate killing. Knives, or hatchets. I'll even use an axe if I haven't been drinking. One time, we had this guy—what's his name…I think his name was Anthony…or was it Timothy…—He was Fish Mooney's umbrella boy, and after Oswald extracted the information he needed from him, I literally cut his body from hip to hip. All his guts ended up just _pouring_ out…Frankly, I'm surprised none of it got on my dress."

Alex waved his hands quickly, gathering her attention. Sylvia looked at him, surprised.

"Why the hell are you telling me all of this?" asked Alex goodhumoredly. "That's a _lot_ of information you just laid on me."

"I don't know," She confessed. "Maybe it's because I've had a lot to drink tonight. I've had like four shots of whiskey, two glasses of champagne, and I'm halfway through this martini—thanks by the way."

"What if you're just trying to ease my humiliation with random conversation so I don't feel so fucking exposed?"

"Maybe. But it doesn't fucking work if you point out the obvious, idiot."

Alex grinned at her response. He waved the bartender, asking for another drink. The bartender gave him a pink-colored beverage: A Sex on The Beach. He held up his glass, and they clinked them together before taking a drink simultaneously. Alex made a face while Sylvia completely downed hers in one go.

"You like knives, huh?" Alex asked, intrigued.

"More or less. The last time I hunted anyone down though, we had to use guns."

"Automatic?"

"Mine was."

"Who'd you go after?"

"Ah, ah, ah," Sylvia chastised with a small smile. " _That's_ classified."

"What if told you who _I_ went after?"

"Still classified."

"I'd like some new notes," Alex tried to persuade. "You've worked for Falcone, for Maroni…for Penguin…Maybe you can tell me a few things that would make me better at my own job."

"Whoa," Sylvia whispered, impressed. "A _humble_ Rooster. That's interesting all by itself."

"You like that?"

"From time to time."

"What else you like?"

"Modesty," answered Sylvia with a soft smile. "You still need to work on it, Alex."

She stood from her pew, tipped the bartender, and then headed back into the crowd with Alex watching after her. A small little smile tugging on his lips just as she disappeared into the rest of the party.

Maybe his alternate approach had worked just as Falcone had suggested. He glanced over his shoulder to see Falcone having watched him and Sylvia talk; Falcone simply held up his glass and gave him the approving nod.

Alex held up his own glass in response.

It wasn't a large step in the direction he wanted to go but having Sylvia as something rather than nothing was a lot better than having her as an enemy. That much was for sure.

* * *

Sylvia searched for her husband; her head was starting to spin, and her legs were numb.

Oswald wasn't at the table as she had expected. Instead, he spoke with some of the unfamiliar people who had been wafting around like untied balloons at a kid's birthday party. As Sylvia approached, he wrapped an arm around her waist adoringly.

"Are you ready to go, Sweetheart?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald chuckled and said to the people with whom he was talking, "See what I mean?"

They gave an appreciative chortle to a joke that Sylvia didn't understand nor did she care to before she and Oswald left for the limousine which was parked outside. They were about three seconds from getting in before someone called for them. Both of them turned to see a familiar face heading in their direction.

" _Jim?"_ Sylvia and Oswald greeted incredulously.

Jim stopped short in front of them.

Sylvia asked, "What are you doing here? I didn't think you were invited."

"I wasn't," Jim said dismissively. He glanced at Oswald curiously: " _You_ were?"

"I'm her plus-one," Oswald explained, gesturing to her.

"Was," Sylvia corrected. "We were just leaving."

"Well, that might have changed."

"Based on what?" Sylvia questioned.

"Your involvement."

"My involve—what did I do _now_?"

Jim frowned deeply. While Sylvia was used to such an expression being on his face when he was around both her and Oswald, it wasn't one that usually came without it being warranted. So, she assumed the obvious.

"Are you on a case?" Sylvia asked.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"A doctor."

"Well, the engagement party is for two of them, so I suspect you have your work cut out for you. Come on, Oswald…" Sylvia said indifferently.

Oswald climbed into the back of the limousine, driven by Gabe. As Sylvia turned to join him, Jim grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

The action itself brought about three different reactions: First, Gabe climbed out of the driver's seat so quickly that Oswald was impressed. Second, Sylvia never glared at Jim so sharply. And third, it had Alex Beals coming out of the restaurant so fast, that one could only presume that he'd been watching Sylvia the entire time with what could only have been described as a readied, arbitrary confrontational jealousy.

" _Hey! Get your hands off her!"_

Oswald sighed irritably, getting out of the limousine just as Jim turned, oblivious to the demand. Alex stopped shortly in front of the detective, realizing who he was.

"Alexander Beals." Jim noted shallowly.

"Well, hey, Jimmy Boy!" Alex greeted loudly.

"Alex…" Sylvia reprimanded, rolling her eyes when Jim glowered at her ex in recoil at the nickname.

Oswald stared at them with confusion and he glanced at Gabe, muttering, " _'Jimmy Boy'_?"

Gabe shrugged.

"Sorry, man," Alex laughed, "I thought someone else was grabbing Sylvia. Thought maybe she was getting—"

"—harassed by the mutually malcontent? _That_ , she was." Oswald finished irately.

"Hey," Alex said, pointing at him. "I wasn't talking to _you_."

"I didn't ask if you were talking to me," Oswald retorted.

"God, Alex, would you stop being so fucking confrontational?" hissed Sylvia.

"I wasn't being confrontational until _he_ was. You saw me earlier. I was fine before _he_ started talking."

Oswald stared at Sylvia, an expression of betrayal on his face as he realized that Alex and Sylvia had spoken without him there.

"That's right!" Alex said, pointing at his own chest as he made himself look bigger by poofing it out. "We had a drink, _Mister_ Mayor. What do you think about that!"

"Enough of this, we're leaving," Sylvia said curtly.

"Not yet," Jim ordered.

"Not yet?" Sylvia said, disarmed. "Why? What did I do?"

"She didn't do anything—" Alex began defensively.

"—Shut the fuck up! I can handle myself!" Sylvia snapped.

"She was with me the whole time," Alex continued to bark out alibis.

"Well, _that's_ a lie if I didn't know one," Oswald said loudly. Then he added snidely under his breath, "Or _is_ it—"

"Don't even!" Sylvia warned Oswald.

"Don't even _what_ —"

"—You know what," Sylvia responded hotly. "You know I wouldn't be doing anything with _him_."

"What the hell does that mean!" Alex rounded. "I thought we were starting to gather some type of friendship—"

"—Stop baiting my husband—"

"—He's _not_ baiting me—"

"—You're just as jealous as I am!" Alex declared, pointing at Oswald.

"Jealous? Why would _I_ be jealous?" Oswald questioned.

"Because I'm stronger, and taller, and—"

"—At least I'm not a _moron_ ," Oswald countered heatedly.

Alex stepped towards Oswald aggressively. Just as he might've responded, Jim let out a guttural sigh of exasperation and pushed Alex away from both Oswald and his sister. He held out a hand when Alex dared to push back.

"Stop it, all three of you!" Jim demanded, glancing at them all. "Right now, I'm conducting police business—"

"— _oh_ , it's _police_ business," Alex mocked. "Oh, excuse _us_ , **Jim**. We couldn't handle your famous, important _police_ business—"

"—Beals, I swear to god—"

"—Because it was always so important to you before," Alex reminded, annoyed, gesticulating dramatically to Sylvia as he added, "Why am I not so fucking surprised? You always put your job before her then, and you're still doing it _now_."

Oswald and Sylvia stared at Alex. Not exactly taken aback by the truth of his statement, but because even _he_ acknowledged it.

Jim stepped towards Alex threateningly.

"Not that I have a stake in any of this," Jim said harshly, "but I'm _very_ busy. One of these guests is wanted for murder—"

"—Just one? That's an odd number—"

"—Shut up, Alex," Sylvia snapped, "this isn't time for your stupid jokes!"

"—And I intend to find out where he is!" Jim finished. "And Alex, you're impeding on police business. If you don't stop aggravating me, I'll have to arrest you—"

"—For _what_! I ain't done nothing!" Alex whined. "You're the one who's coming over here, barking orders and grabbing at people! You call that 'police business', huh? And then you're yelling at _me_? What do you expect me to do when I see someone grabbing Sylvia!"

"I didn't grab her!" Jim snarled.

"You did!"

Oswald and Sylvia glanced at one another, not sure what to say or what to do as Jim and Alex went back and forth in what could have been a furious debate if it hadn't been over something so stupid.

"Should we go?" Sylvia offered to Oswald.

"No, you can't. I need to ask—"

Oswald snickered, "If you're going to ask your questions, Jim, I'd do it now. You're not getting rid of that one."

He gestured ironically to Alex. This evidently pissed him off since Alex threw Jim a little to the side, and confronted Oswald, who watched him dangerously.

"You think you're better than me, don't you!" Alex said, gesturing violently to him.

"Oh, in every conceivable way," Oswald returned smugly.

"Fuck you, you know? Fuck you. I tried helping her. I-I tried giving her everything she ever wanted but she didn't want it—" Alex said angrily, glaring, now, at Sylvia, who watched him with an unreadable expression. "Sylvie, you know I loved you, you _know_ it. You can try to pretend I didn't, and you could try pretending like you still don't care, but I did everything for—"

Oswald scoffed, "Sylvia, get in the car."

"I'm not pretending _anything_!" argued Sylvia, moving past Oswald to address Alex. "It was _you_ who decided to end the fucking relationship, _not_ me. When you left Gotham, you left **me**. It's not my fucking fault that you're blaming yourself _now_ after all those fucking years! And that you're having to try twice as hard to make up for lost time! It's _your_ fault, _not_ mine! And I'm trying to keep you alive, goddamn it, so don't try telling people that I never cared for you. You have no right—so don't you dare put that shit on _me_!"

"I'm not putting anything on you!" Alex shouted.

"Oh really? You keep trying to make me look like the bad guy when it was _you_ who didn't want _me_! Not the other way around!"

"Don't you understand! I _had_ to leave Gotham!"

"You didn't have to leave _anything_ or, better yet, _any_ _ **one**_!"

"I had no choice!"

"Fuck _that_ , you always had a choice!"

"People were keeping us apart!"

"People? _What people_!"

"Your brother, for _one_!"

Oswald and Jim exchanged knowing looks. How many times had Jim expressed hatred in the fact that Oswald and Sylvia were dating? It was a two-second glance but it was met with understanding. Jim, however, didn't take this insult lying down. His police work was forgotten.

"I didn't keep either of you apart," Jim reminded forcefully, interjecting himself in the conversation (or if one called it that).

"Yes, you did!" Alex argued. "You kept telling her I was no good for her—"

"Because I was _right_!" Jim retorted.

"I treated her with respect!"

"You treated her like she was—"

"—You don't know what I did to—"

"— _anyone else could have been better—_ "

Pretty soon, neither Oswald nor Sylvia could tell who was shouting what as Jim and Alex tried speaking over the other. Finally, Alex said heatedly, " _So fine_ , have him stay with her" (he gestured to Oswald in reference) "but all he cares about is fucking her because that's all he fucking cares about, Jim! That's all his people do—"

THUD!

Sylvia and Oswald's eyes both widened in surprise when Alex hit the ground, holding his nose where Jim had decked him. Sylvia moved forward, but Oswald pulled her back.

Alex started to bleed.

"You hit me!" Alex accused.

"Yes, I did!" Jim rounded angrily. He picked Alex up, slamming him against the window of the limousine. "You were a putz when I met you and you're a putz now!"

Alex whined, "So you'd rather have Sylvia with a fucking criminal than have her with someone like—"

"YES! I would rather have her with Oswald than with _anyone_ like you." Jim shouted emphatically. "Using my sister to get to the top because you _needed_ her to be your mask. Taking up all her time—You had her fall in love with you, then you left her! _Real good_ , Alex, so **respectful**."

Jim threw Alex down to the ground; the sod of dust picked up from the sudden intrusion that was his face.

Alex glowered: "I left Gotham to—"

"Protect her?" Jim interrupted furiously. "Do you have any idea what you left behind? No, of course you don't."

Alex stood up to fight back, but Jim punched him again.

"Stop it, Jim!" Sylvia shouted.

Oswald held her back, somehow. He wasn't even sure what was really happening to Jim. This was new to _him_.

"Do you have any idea how many nights I stayed up with her, having to watch her cry herself to sleep _every_ night for **weeks**!" Jim growled.

"Jimmy, _stop_ it!"

Alex held up his hands in front of him. As though it might deter Jim from hitting him again as the detective clearly wanted to do.

"After all these months, no," Jim said irritably as he rubbed his lips where spittle had flown from his mouth earlier. "I don't want my sister to be with any criminal, not you, not even Oswald, but I prefer it if she's with _him_. His priority was and _is_ still Vee's safety. What was yours! _What was yours_!"

Alex didn't have an answer.

Jim growled, "That's what I thought! Now, get the _hell_ up."

Alex slowly got to his feet, unsteadily wavering until he got his balance. Blood ran down his nose, his mouth. He desperately looked to Sylvia for sympathy. By then, Sylvia was sadly watching him, knowing that what Jim had said was true.

He started towards her and Oswald.

Jim poked him hard in the chest with a deadly warning spoken: " **Walk away.** "

Alex met Jim's eyes, seeing his obvious dislike, and he lowered his gaze to see that Jim held his weapon as if he might pull it out of its holster. He quickly turned and grumpily headed back into the restaurant.

"Well…" Oswald noted interestedly. " _That's_ a side of you I have never seen before."

Jim rolled his shoulders back, fixing his suit as he said with justifiable cause, "Honestly, I've been waiting to give him a piece of my mind. I just needed a reason to find him."

"And yet, he found you."

"Accidentally." Jim reminded.

"You didn't have to do that," said Sylvia, glaring daggers at him.

"Have you been drinking?"

Sylvia frowned, saying, "Yes. Why the fuck does that matter?"

"You're always a lot more emotional when you've been drinking," Jim explained. "It's why I asked. Didn't expect you to react so… _openly_."

"She's still hung up on him," Oswald stated, glancing at Sylvia knowingly. "It's annoying, actually."

"Well, now you see how I feel when she's out and about defending _you_." Jim said coolly, putting Sylvia's nurturing spirit into light as he saw it.

" _No._ I told you I don't feel anything for him. Okay? He's just lost," Sylvia said defensively. "He didn't know how to react to all of us being in the same area. And, by the way, you didn't have to punch him, Jim."

"Well, he had it coming for what he did to you back then, Vee. Honestly, I felt it was justified."

Oswald grinned at this answer. Sylvia, in return, crossed her arms grudgingly as she frowned at the both of them. Her expression a mixture of knowing Jim was right, that the better part of her response was exacerbated in emotion by the alcohol, and that the whole situation was fucked up in general.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, adding, "I _do_ have a few questions to ask you. The both of you."

"I didn't do anything to Mrs. James, _despite_ what the papers say," said Sylvia arguably, tightening her arms over her body. "I didn't put a bag of crap on her door, light it on fire, and run, and I _most certainly_ didn't hide her fucking car keys. Her accusations are fucking stupid, and I'll be damned if I get interrogated for it, and I'll be hurt if you even believe those motherfuckers."

"You know me," said Jim gently. "I don't believe the tabloids. But she really is trying hard to undermine your reputation."

" _Let her_."

"She's vindictive, obviously, Vee. So is Aubrey James."

"Well, then, she's met her match. Personally, I don't see why she has to go around and round—she can come to my door and easily insult me."

"Maybe she's the quiet type?"

"Ah, Jimmy has a sense of humor." Sylvia mused playfully; her anger obviously forgotten.

"In all seriousness," Oswald chimed in. "We're suspecting that she might operate behind the scenes, as it were."

Jim tilted his head to the side curiously, asking, "Have you been threatened?"

"Not in so many ways, but they have sent Ed and me their deepest regards…unprovoked." Oswald answered.

" _After_ you stole the campaign from underneath him?" said Jim skeptically.

"I didn't steal anything, Jim. I earned my position of office in the most honorable way possible, something you can no doubt appreciate."

Jim considered Oswald's statement with some unspoken admiration. He glanced at Sylvia, who looked as though she would want to be anywhere but here.

"Anyway…I'm not here to interrogate you about what some tabloid has to say about you. I'm here about a suspect. That said…Do either of you know Paulie Pennies?"

"Who doesn't know him?" Oswald said with a considerable amount of cynicism.

"Do you?" Jim questioned Sylvia.

"The Underworld's garbage disposal," Sylvia answered. "Bit of a dirt bag, if you asked me."

"You know him personally?"

"Only through Oswald."

"I know _of_ him." Oswald clarified. "Why? What happened?"

"He was murdered the other night."

Oswald licked his lips with intrigue saying ironically, "The GCPD is looking for a man whose job is to get rid of the corpses that _literally_ litter the back alleys of Gotham?"

"No." Jim replied flatly. "We're looking for whomever murdered him."

"Bad killing the bad," Sylvia advised carelessly. "What does it matter?"

"He was _murdered_." Jim emphasized while Sylvia and Oswald rolled their eyes at each other. "He was dismembered too…his head was rolling around on the floor when the police finally arrived on the scene."

"Ooh, that's some vivid imagery."

"Vee, I'm serious…"

"Well, he's out of action. Just means that someone else will step forward to do the job that no one else wants to do. Unless you didn't have a nose…someone without a nose might find the job pretty invasive but otherwise easy." Sylvia suggested. She asked Oswald offhandedly, "Does the city employ people without noses?"

"If not, they should consider it. They're a handy people."

"And they're not nosy." Sylvia joked, smirking when Jim frowned at her.

" _Forget Paulie Pennies._ " Jim said sternly.

"Forgotten." Oswald and Sylvia promised simultaneously.

"I have one more question."

"Fire away," Sylvia encouraged.

"Do you know Maxwell Symon? Either of you."

"Who is _that_?" asked Sylvia.

"He's a surgeon," Oswald returned, earning a curious look from her and a cool expression from Jim.

"You know him?" asked Jim, resentful.

"I know _of_ him."

"Seems like you know ' _of_ 'a lot of people."

Oswald grinned at Jim's 'innocent' accusation, knowing they both were aware of his internal practices behind the mayoral hat.

"He's answering your questions, Jimmy. Might wanna lay off the sarcasm."

Jim took her words into advisement, but his tone remained just as gruff: "Are you sure you know him?"

Oswald scoffed, "This is a man who cuts off the faces of people he kills" (Sylvia stared at him, agape in disgust) "and finds profits in molding aforementioned faces onto the clients who pay him, correct?"

Jim confirmed with a disgruntled, " _Yes_. That's exactly who he is."

Oswald placed both hands on his cane and said pointedly, "I do not have an address if you're looking for his permanent whereabouts but I _can_ give you the list of his known associates who have been known to hang around a man of such ill-repute."

"Actually, that would be helpful," Jim returned gratefully. "We have police officers stationed around his home, but we actually believe he might be here."

"Here?" Sylvia piped, pointing to the ground. "He's a guest at an engagement party?"

"A fairly popular one, apparently. Have you seen any doctors around that you might consider attractive?"

Oswald gave Jim a look but Sylvia said softly, "Jim, you know there's only room enough in my eyes for one man." As a point, she lovingly tangled her hand through Oswald's hair.

Jim muttered, " _Fantastic_. Thanks for the help."

"Anytime." Sylvia returned slyly. She kissed Oswald on the cheek, adding, "I'm getting in the car now."

She did as she said. Oswald peered after her then turned to Jim, who readily waited with pen and notepad. Oswald told him the names of Pennies' accountable associates.

"Thanks." Jim said reluctantly. He pocketed pen and paper, and asked, "What did you want in return?"

"Nothing."

"That's hard to believe."

"Not necessarily." Oswald said with a small smile. "You already gave me what I wanted."

"Oh, really? Dare I ask what it was?"

Oswald gestured to the blood that was on the pavement.

"Hitting Beals?" Jim guessed.

"He has been aggravating me _all_ night," Oswald explained. "Seeing you punch him was almost like an early Christmas present."

"Well…Happy Holidays."

"To you as well."

"Good night, Oswald."

"Good night, Jim."

As Jim left to interrogate the rest of the party guests, Oswald climbed into the limo where Sylvia was idly humming to herself.

"Well, I'm glad we stayed." Oswald said contently.

"Really? After all of that?"

"I _told_ you something always interesting happens at parties like these."

"Oh, another 'I told you so' tonight."

"I know. I'm hitting my quota for the week." Oswald teased.

"At _my_ expense."

He heard her sarcasm underlying the sense of playfulness that her tone would otherwise suggest.

"I'm sorry for what I implied back there, by the way," Oswald said apologetically. "I know you and him…"

"So, why'd you say it?" Sylvia asked. "Why imply it at all?"

"Beals got under my skin, is all."

"I don't know why you took the bait. That's all he wanted was to get a rise out of you."

"He certainly got that out of your brother."

"He didn't have to punch him is all I'm saying."

"He deserved it," Oswald sighed. "He was asking for it."

"Maybe…" She resigned.

"That was an interesting reaction when he did."

"Oh, come on, Ozzie…"

Oswald looked at her expectantly. Sylvia rubbed her head, the alcohol getting to her.

"The way you reacted…It's the same reaction you had in the past when Jim would try to threaten or harm _me_."

"Look, I have a…a _tendency_ to be motherly with my love interests. Whether current, former, or something in between. I can't _help_ it, it's fucking innate. It was a reflex, at best…it was…"

"You still care for him, don't you?" Oswald asked knowingly.

"No…yes…I don't even fucking know. I just know that there's a part of him that's trying to be my friend and whether that's because he really _is_ trying to make up for lost time, or something else, I don't know. With him, it's difficult. There's too much guesswork with him. And I can't navigate it, him, or you when everyone is together. I have to think too much around him…constantly on guard…constantly…"

He leaned towards her, capturing her lips with his into a tender but passionate kiss. She felt his arms wrap around her back, pulling her to him but also moving her down onto the cushions of the limo. She submitted, smiling into the kiss.

"Oz…"

"Shh, don't think about it." Oswald reminded, smirking when she took his hint.

"You're not angry at me, are you?"

"No."

She kissed him back.

"If you are, I can understand…but you have nothing to…to worry about, I promise," Sylvia tried explaining herself in between kisses.

Oswald shushed her, entangling his hands through her hair.

"I love you, Pigeon."

"I love you too."

One of his hands left her hair to stroke the outside of her thigh.

She kissed him back, lightly sucking his bottom lip suggestively.

"Remember your promise to take care of me tonight?" She hummed.

"How could I forget?"


	44. The Ménage

Chapter Forty-Four: The Ménage

Author's Note: So sorry for the late update. Life happens, but hopefully, I'm back on a normal schedule. The chapter I know most of you have been waiting for 😊

* * *

Once the limo was parked in front of the mansion, Oswald tried to assist Sylvia out of the car, only for her to stubbornly wave away his hand. She clamored over to his side, stepped out of the car with a slighted unsteady sway. She held her heels in one hand; his arm in the other.

Curiously, she peered up at the sky: "It's not even dark yet…"

Gabe answered her unspoken question: "It's almost seven-thirty."

"PM?"

Gabe chuckled, "Yes, 'PM'."

Sylvia smirked at Oswald, saying, "Wouldn't you know? We have the _whole_ night ahead of us."

As she and Oswald ambled towards the mansion, Gabe walked ahead so he could open the door for them; he and Oswald snickered when Sylvia tripped over the threshold as she let out a humorous, light-hearted giggle.

Gabe was about to head to his room on the same floor before he felt Sylvia's hand on his shoulder. She'd made her way from the door and past the living room faster than he could have expected, which proved his theory that even while the woman could drink more than her own staff, she could still operate as easily as if she was sober—not to mention move faster than any woman he'd ever known whilst under the influence.

"If you would, Gabriel," she said gently, "meet me here tomorrow morning…Say nine o'clock?"

"Nine o'clock…" He repeated, not caring for the reason as to why.

Luckily for him, Oswald asked what was planned for that time period.

Her lips contorted into a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame as she said mischievously, "Just going to keep my promise—the one about keeping an eye on our blonde librarian friend."

She would be snooping through the librarian's things likely later tomorrow morning. It wouldn't have made sense trying to do it so late in the night, or even now as she was three shots to the breeze.

"Could you do that for me?" Sylvia requested sweetly.

Gabe cracked a dopey grin, nodding.

"Thank you so much. I appreciate everything you do. Get some sleep."

She hugged him around his large middle and Gabe seemed taken aback at first, but also fairly flattered by her informal thanks, grateful for it.

He patted her platonically on the shoulder, careful not to send any type of message that might be mistaken by his boss. When she let him go, Gabe nodded respectfully to Oswald, who did the same, and the help quickly left for his quarters. After he'd gone, Sylvia carelessly threw her heels near the fireplace; one landed on its heel, while the other missed its mark.

She giggled, "Oops! Short-armed it! Hehe!"

While they were in the living room alone, Oswald smirked when Sylvia sauntered over to him. Her gait was curiously steady, not as wobbly or as discombobulated as he might've guessed. After Sylvia had finished drinking as much as she had, Oswald had expected sloppy footwork; then again, she'd consumed them all over the period of five hours. Not nearly enough time to become completely plastered…Which that seemed like good news to him.

Her hands started on his chest then swiftly rubbed up and around his neck so he was pulled into one of her slow but titillating, passionate kisses. It was one of his favorites, and he was happy to return it. For a moment it was silent for not even the fireplace was lit to offer the occasional crackle of flame, nor the windows open to allow the settling noise of a cool breeze inside the room. The silence was welcome, however, not deafening.

It was because of this rare silence that Sylvia and Oswald heard the sound as though a chair was being scooted across the dining room's wooden floors. They looked at each other, and with a smile, Sylvia took his hand and she walked into aforementioned room with Oswald close behind her.

Ed, sitting at the table, wearing red plaid pajama top and bottoms, was eating a bowl of cereal. The gallon of milk sat on the surface of the table, a small spillage around it as though it might've been placed down none too gently.

His shoulders were hunched over as he moodily ate.

"Ed?"

Ed's face barely shifted in recognition of Oswald's voice, but his eyes followed the couple into the dining room. He gave them both a short, small smile that didn't reach his eyes before they returned to the frosted wheat in his bowl.

"Ed? Eeehhhhd." Sylvia sang playfully as she walked around the table towards him.

While Oswald was compelled to allow him to sulkily eat his poor excuse for a dinner in peace, it seemed as though his counterpart had other ideas. Even though Ed seemed to be trying his best to avoid her gaze.

She leaned over the surface with a butterfly's dainty hover and spoke in the same inquisitively honey voice: "Sooo" (she cocked her head to the side like a curious puppy) "What happened to your date?"

"We had the date," answered Ed stoically. "It went well."

"If that was the case, then why are you _here_? And not over _there_ with her?"

His eyes flickered in her direction for a millisecond. A small smile tried tugging the corner of his mouth, daring him to smile at her child-like approach. However, he was determined to remained sulky. It didn't deter Sylvia in the slightest; she had harsher rebuffs from an adolescent brother.

He answered her with an attempt of the same stoic voice although it came out more humane, and softer: "I told her I had a meeting tomorrow morning."

Oswald looked at Sylvia, confused, then spoke his thoughts aloud: "But…we don't."

"I know that." Ed said indignantly, glancing at him, then returning his gruffy attitude back to his bowl; he chewed on the cereal much too long for what it was worth.

"Ah, so you told a little white lie…" purred Sylvia.

"It's not a lie. Not really."

"Hm?"

"It's _not_."

"How's that not a lie?"

"I have a meeting in the morning. It's just not 'tomorrow', per se."

"Huh. And that's what's making you moody, is it?"

"No…"

"So, then, what's the issue, Eddie-ole-buddy-ole-pal?" Sylvia asked with a quirk of a smile.

Ed stared at her, then turned his attention to Oswald, annoyed: "Has she been drinking?"

"Yes," He answered. Ironically, he added, "She has. How could you tell?"

Sylvia sat in the chair on one side of Ed; Oswald remained standing, watching her.

"I've never seen you so moody," She noted.

"Well, there's a first for everything." Ed grumbled, taking a spoonful of wheat into his mouth.

"That's just odd how you're having a wonderful time and then you up and leave. How did she react?"

"She understands."

"Does she?"

"Yes."

"She must be pretty understanding to accept that kind of excuse. The only time a man ever told _me_ he had a meeting in the morning was if he didn't want to have sex with me…. So…What gives, buddy boy?"

Ed stared at her, still chewing on the same spoonful of shredded wheat. With her reference spoken, his mastication was paused before he resumed with careful nibbles. Preferring to stare at the table rather than meet her gaze, he remained quiet.

Oswald leaned forward on a chair opposite of Ed; his hands lightly caressed the back of it, more or less waiting to see if his friend would take Sylvia's bait. For the most part, she was only providing the conversation, but just as he had a skill to loosen tongues via torturous and physical means, Sylvia's skill was based in one-sided conversation. Even someone as fortuitous and hard-headed as Ed would fall prey to her chatter…It was only a matter of time.

Oswald preferred to remain quiet, observing the two with subtle interest.

"So, you're on your date," began Sylvia.

"I really don't feel like talking about it." Ed uttered curtly.

"Then don't talk about it. I'll talk."

"Oh, for the love of… _Fine._ You talk."

"That's what I just said."

"Hmph." Ed exhaled, rolling his eyes.

Sylvia lifted herself onto the edge of the table: One foot on the floor while the other gently dangled.

"So, you're on your date," She continued. "You're talking, you're doing _whatever_ it is that Chief-of-Staffs do with blonde librarians when _suddenly_ " (She threw her hands in the air dramatically, making both Ed and Oswald smile involuntarily.) "you say"—Her voice lowered an octave to mimic Ed's low tones—"'Excuse me, baby, I have to leave because I've got a meeting in the morning.' Now…Call me 'crazy' but does that sound anything like you, Riddles?"

Ed opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

"No, Ed. That's a big, fat 'no' for _you_. Don't collect two hundred dollars; don't pass go. Just go straight to jail," said Sylvia whimsically, elaborately brushing the table with her hand to indicate that he lost an invisible Monopoly game and the board itself might have been pushed to the floor if it had been sitting on the table.

Ed looked up at her, a grudgeful gaze sent her way: "Your narrative skills are sensational when you're drunk, Liv."

"I'm not drunk _yet_ ," She corrected. "But consider me riveted by your compliment. So, is that the way of it?"

"You went overboard with the animation, but yes. That's the 'way of it'."

"So, what's the deal?" Sylvia questioned ironically. "You like her, you love her—you say so, anyway—and you're obviously attracted to her. This was, what, your third date?"

"Liv…"

"Kinda means you have the 'go head' for a romp sesh, right?"

Ed's face turned pink. Sylvia smirked.

"So, it _was_ that kind of date, huh?"

Having seen Ed get more than embarrassed for the night, Oswald proceeded to step in, trying to distract her. However, she did not make the escape easy. Ed wasn't cracking and she was determined.

"I can understand not wanting to take it too fast. You've known her, what, a week, at best?"

"At the least," Ed said hastily. "And it's _not_ like that."

"No?"

" _No_."

Sylvia shrugged: "So tell me what it's like, Grumpy."

Ed frowned and said to Oswald through gritted teeth, "She is interrogative when she's tipsy."

"You're telling _me_ ," He agreed.

"C'monnnnn," Sylvia groaned as she put her head on the table in front of Ed. "Tell us what's wronnnnng. We're your friends, aren't we? You know you could tell us anything. For Christ's sake, we know when you're acting weird. And trust me." (She lifted her head off the table quickly.) "I feel like you're acting _weird_. Like really, really weird."

"I'm not acting weird."

"Liar, liar, plants for hire."

"It's ' _pants on fire_ '," said Ed, snarky. "And I don't feel it is appropriate to discuss it with either of you."

"So!" Sylvia gasped sarcastically. She touched Ed's head. "There _is_ something wrong!"

"Yes, but like I said—"

"Oh, for fuck sake, man, just spit it out! No judgment here." Sylvia insisted.

"Are you _sure_ you're not drunk?"

"Tipsy, sweetie. Not drunk. And stop changing the fucking subject."

"I'm just—" Ed began, but he wasn't sure how to continue nor was he sure if he even wanted to _think_ about saying what he wanted to say. He looked at Oswald for help, but the mayor simply smiled.

"You know she isn't going to stop until you give in," Oswald reminded.

"I suppose perseverance would make little difference in this situation?" Ed asked reluctantly.

"I think it'd only make your situation that much worse."

"It's annoying."

"It's how she is when she's been drinking. Admittedly, not one of her most attractive traits." Oswald admitted, smiling when Sylvia gazed at him reproachfully. He added gently, "It's a bit amusing when you're not standing on the receiving end."

At this, she beamed happily at him.

Ed looked at Sylvia who was staring him down with a small, but mischievous smile. That smile displayed a certain amount of openness though, and he was certain that he might be judged by Oswald, but never by her for what he was about to explain.

Ed pushed his bowl of cereal away, interlaced his fingers together on the table and he spoke without looking at either of them.

"Isabella and I had our third date. And, don't get me wrong, it was fantastic. However, we started to become more…ahem…intimate, and I suddenly had this fear," Ed explained, gesticulating as he spoke. "A fear that I hadn't had before…"

Sylvia's original playful demeanor became attentive. Her voice was soothing: "What is it that you fear, Ed?"

Ed didn't meet her gaze.

"That I might not be everything Isabella thinks I am…or worse…" He confessed. "That I might not have the self-control to not hurt her."

Oswald couldn't help but allow a small smile to creep to the corner of his mouth.

' _Yes, it would be a_ monstrosity _if Ed were to hurt Isabella'_ , he thought.

While he tried to think of it in a sympathetic point of view, it came out delightfully raw.

However, Sylvia's response was tender. She reached out a hand and touched Ed's wrist; at the gentle gesture, Ed peered up at her. He never looked so vulnerable.

"When you say 'hurt her'…What do you mean by that?"

"It's difficult to articulate…"

"Then talk about it logically. Just analyze it like it was one of your cases back when you were working in the GCPD. Take the subjectivity out of it completely." Sylvia offered, removing her hand from Ed's and lifting it above her head with the inclination.

"I'm afraid that I might disappoint her intimately," Ed said quickly.

When he spoke, he was afraid to see what her reaction was, in general. When he met her eyes, Ed was surprised to see that Sylvia's expression only reflected one of understanding and, if he wasn't seeing things, warmth.

"Your first time was with Kristen, wasn't it?"

" _No…_ No, it wasn't—"

"It's _okay_ , Ed. Not everyone is fucking at the age of twelve anymore," comforted Sylvia. "Even if they were, you haven't anything to prove, you know. Waiting for the right person to come along is sweet…romantic, even."

"Well, clearly, Kristen wasn't the 'right' one. The moment she found out about me killing Dougherty—"

"She turned on you, I know."

Ed smiled nervously, but he was grateful that she'd said it instead of him. Even though Kristen had turned against him so quickly, he still held a soft spot in his heart for her. After all, it was her death that made him who he was, and he would forever be grateful to her for that.

"So, what, you don't want to be with Isabella because she might not be the right one?" Sylvia asked. "You weren't so sure, so you left the situation?"

Throughout, Oswald simply existed, grateful to see that interaction between the two of them. Even now, he was reminiscing his own sexual relationships. There were only a couple before Sylvia; he remembered their names and while each one meant something to him, none had come close to being so compatible or meaningful than with the one he married.

He then realized that if he and Ed were together, he'd be Ed's first male counterpart.

Just the thought of it made him feel a little dizzy.

"It's not that," negated Ed. "It's not that all."

"Then _what_ is it?" Oswald asked quietly.

Ed looked at the both of them. They both wanted to hear him, to understand him, to validate his fear. He hadn't appreciated them enough until now.

"I'm afraid," He said slowly, "that I might do something that Isabella might not like, or even worse, hate. I know it's not rational; it's a debilitating symptom from being raised by a tyrannical idiot." (Sylvia smiled supportively of his rationale.) "And while I can cognitively separate the two whilst in any other given situation easily, I cannot _tangibly_ " (He collapsed his hands and tightly knit his fingers together to demonstrate a knot.) "untie them during the act of intimacy."

"Do you know why that is?" said Sylvia quizzically.

"Obviously, if I did, I wouldn't be lackadaisically eating a bowl of cereal with little regard to the time of day, would I?"

"The reason you're afraid is not because of your father's verbal and physical abuse. It's a compounding factor, but—as you said—it's a symptom of it, not the source."

"Are you really trying to profile me now?" Ed questioned cynically.

"Do you want to hear me out or not?"

Ed glanced at Oswald, who shrugged.

Oswald was always enlightened by Sylvia's insights into the human heart and mind. While he could read people, she saw them as if they were naked. Since the restoration of her skills (thanks in part to Falcone), she had only become more in tune with mankind's emotional intelligence. It was almost a super power, at this point.

"Fine." Ed resigned.

"Your dad's bad parenting is only part of the reason why you feel like you wouldn't be able to satisfy this librarian love of yours. Your father's partly the reason why your self-esteem is in the shitter. Your fear in not pleasing Isabella is because your self-confidence is down the drain," said Sylvia matter-of-factly, ignoring his sarcastic remark. "Your mind is your greatest asset; you prize your intelligence over any other quality you have so, naturally, it would behoove you to use your mind when you're fucking."

Ed smirked at her humor.

She said plainly, "Being afraid that you might hurt her when you're in the moment, not knowing if you have that type of self-control when that moment comes. You're thinking about it much too hard. For once, your mind has become your hindrance. Because, ultimately, you have to think with this" (Sylvia leaned forward and touched his chest.) "and, fundamentally enough, your dick. You can't do that if you're out of the moment, fretting about whether or not you may go too far. You just don't know until you approach the situation."

Ed stared at her. Oswald did too.

"Leave it to Lark to take the guesswork out of our sexual hang-ups," said Ed cynically.

It was amazing to hear the blunt side of a psychological profiling. Sylvia smirked at the two of them before she stood to her feet and walked into the kitchen briefly before coming back with a bottle of tequila and three glasses, placing them down on the table: one glass per customer.

"Milk doesn't go great with alcohol, Liv."

"I don't care."

She poured three fingers of tequila in his shot glass, then in Oswald's, and one in hers. After a moment, she sat down and looked at Ed.

"For what it's worth, I think you'd be able to make her happy, no matter what way you go about it. Even if you _did_ only know her for a week" (Ed frowned at her catty remark.) "You two would just have to experiment. And don't worry about whether or not she would leave you if you did hurt her. Girls like a _little_ pain from time to time."

"Is that a fact."

"It is." Sylvia said smoothly.

"I guess you would know."

"I _do_."

"Do you?"

Sylvia licked her lips and ran her tongue over the front of her teeth, looking him over before she said patiently, " _Yes._ I _do_ know. Do you have any other smart remarks? If so, we're going to start name-calling and I have a lot of comebacks ready that _aren't_ for idiots. They're for smart people, too."

Ed sent her an apologetic smile while Oswald was all too amused.

Oswald was used to this satirical, strict motherly side of Sylvia. The dominating, stubborn, demanding woman that she became when she had more than wine or champagne in her system. Ed wasn't used to it, and clearly had a hard time maneuvering around it.

"So, what do you plan on doing about it?" Sylvia asked.

Startled, Ed looked at her helplessly: "What is there to do?"

"Oh please," she said humorously. "An intelligent man like you _has_ contingency plans. I know you started thinking of ideas the moment this obstacle was placed in your course. So, come on, Riddles. Tell us."

Ed opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Then he suddenly stood so quickly that his chair nearly toppled over; Oswald and Sylvia glanced at each other, concerned.

"I can't." Ed said quickly, throwing his hands in the air and shaking them as though the original idea he'd conceived was too outrageous. "I can't."

Ed was about to walk out of the dining room. Oswald and Sylvia glanced at each other knowingly and, in perfect sync, stood and grabbed Ed's arms so he was turned towards them.

"Tell us." Sylvia insisted. "What were you about to say?"

"Nothing! I wasn't—"

Oswald said playfully, "You know better than to lie to us, Ed."

"I'm not—"

"Is he not lying to us?" Sylvia asked Oswald.

"Without a doubt, Pigeon."

"I can't say it," Ed insisted strongly, holding up his hands to them.

"Come on!" Sylvia goaded. "Let's hear it!"

"Fine! _Fine!_ "

"Yay!" she cooed, grinning at both gentlemen victoriously.

"What you said…About experimenting."

"Yeah?" Sylvia encouraged.

Ed's eyes flickered between her and Oswald, and he shakily exhaled a breath.

"I was going to propose an experiment of sorts. A, how do you say, 'social' experiment with a controlled environment and a mixture of controlled variables that may mirror the proposed dilemma. It would isolate the inevitability of me crossing Isabella's threshold but also provide me an insurmountable number of solutions, which could be presented without Isabella getting harmed in the process."

Ed spoke so quickly, his logical mannerism in dictating at such a speed reminded Sylvia of how he used to speak of explosives or residue whilst he'd been working Forensics in the GCPD.

Oswald was disarmed, while Sylvia, on the other hand, appeared amused, if not flattered.

"You want to fuck me so you can figure out how much self-control you have?"

Leave it to Sylvia to keep things blunt.

Ed was quick to explain and as he did, the words that came out seemed sewn together: "Sylvia, you and Oswald are the _only_ people who know me well enough, the only people I would trust. And, frankly, receiving anything short of criticism from anyone else, including Isabella, would make it harder for me to learn, and I can't operate under strenuous observation. And I know I would be asking a lot, and, even as I say it, it's starting to sound stupid, so you know, how about we forget the entire premise of the idea and—" Ed's face was turning pink and he started to leave the room, but Sylvia reached up and grabbed the collar of his pajama shirt, pulling him back.

He stood in front of her as he bowed his head in shame, fidgeting with his fingers.

"First off, don't walk away from me when you're still talking to me." Sylvia said strictly. "I _hate_ that. Secondly, let's go back to the dining room—I'd like a bowl of cereal too."

She didn't wait for his nod 'okay' or for his verbal agreement. She simply turned on her heel and headed for the dining room. Oswald and Ed were left alone for a brief period of time. Ed expected to see anger written on his friend's face, but instead, he saw intrigue.

"You don't think she's mad about my suggestion, do you?" said Ed wistfully.

"I don't know _what_ to think," Oswald returned truthfully.

"Are _you_?"

"Not at all." Oswald answered almost immediately, surprising both himself and his friend.

Ed said incredulously, "You're not serious."

Oswald smiled, understanding. He'd shown jealousy whenever anyone, even Ed, reflected the slightest interest in his wife, but over time, his feelings had changed. His love for Ed was impeccably steadfast, after all. Although the conversation of Sylvia even remotely assisting Ed in his love affair with Isabella had made him discreetly shake in jealousy, the fact remained that Ed had become so open with him (and Sylvia) about his short comings was enlightening; it was a brave show of intimacy.

"How I see it," said Oswald softly, "I don't trust anyone to be with Sylvia in anyway short of platonic, but…" (He rubbed Ed's shoulder) "I trust you, Ed."

He beamed at that response.

"We should…" Ed said, gesturing to the dining room. "We don't want to keep her waiting."

"No, we do not."

They quickly moved into the dining room, seeing Sylvia make good on her word as she poured the gallon of milk in her own bowl. Fruity Pebbles, of all things. She disappeared into the kitchen briefly, putting up the milk. She returned, grinning widely at the two of them before she sat down on the chair with a _plop_.

Ed took his seat, between Oswald and Sylvia.

She took a mouthful of cereal, ate it, and after she gulped it down, she said plainly, "Ed. I don't care to do this experiment with you, provided that you accept one caveat."

Ed was surprised to hear her so willingly accept the idea that only seconds ago he might've described as outrageous.

"Anything," said Ed readily.

"He stays." Sylvia ordered, pointing the spoon in Oswald's direction. "In the room. With us."

Oswald's eyes widened; it was _his_ turn to be surprised.

"How—" Ed began.

"Here's the thing," Sylvia said lightly, gathering her empty bowl and spoon and moving it away from her. "I'm more than happy to restore confidence in your brand, Ed, and personally, I've been a little curious about what fucking you would entail anyway. But just as I am a jealous woman, I know my hubby is a jealous man. I want there to be no secrets between us… _either_ of us." She gestured to herself, then to Ed, and then to Oswald as a whole. "Complete open communication is required here, understand? That leaves all parties involved free of suspicion, free of jealousy, or feelings of what might be resentment later in the future. And, personally, _selfishly_ , I wouldn't mind seeing Ozzie get a little hot and bothered while I'm fucking his Chief-of-Staff."

Ed felt a tingle in his pants that hadn't been there up until now. Her words, as blunt and straightforward as they had been, might as well had been dipped in velvet filth.

She smiled sweetly at Oswald: "Or do you disapprove?"

He quickly waved her inclination for disapproval away.

"I can't believe you two are alright with this…any of it…" Ed uttered, steadily looking between them. All he saw were two sets of doting eyes looking back at him.

"I don't see why not. He's your best friend," Sylvia said, tilting her head towards Oswald in reference, "And I'm pretty sure you and I have had the conversation about me finding you attractive, so really, it'd be more unbelievable if we did have a problem."

Ed stared at them, and then he smiled in relief at their ease.

"Pigeon, what exactly would I be—"

"You're free to watch," interrupted Sylvia, smiling at Oswald serenely, winking at him. An unspoken segue to a predilection that both Sylvia and Oswald knew he had.

"I feel like this is more of a business proposition than anything else." Ed stated, nervously laughing.

"In not so many words, it pretty much is. The common misconception about sex is that it can't be spoken or planned about in a contractual way, but for everyone to understand what's happening and so there are no misunderstandings later, I find it necessary. And mandatory, even."

"For someone who has been drinking all night, you are very business-oriented." Ed joked.

"I'm _very_ focused."

"Is it possible to do this tonight?"

Oswald smirked when Sylvia chuckled, "Eager, aren't we?"

"Readily so," Ed submitted.

"I'd say 'yes', but personally, I think you'd be better off with me being sober."

She'd said it so politely, but all Ed had heard was that underlying challenge in her tone.

"Are you saying I wouldn't be able to handle it?" He asked coolly.

"I'm saying that what I do when I've been drinking would not be up to _you_."

Ed's ears perked at the sound of her voice. Her polite, forgiving tone was immediately shunned and the challenge vocalized by a more recognizable dominant one vibrated in his lower belly.

 _Maybe we can come out and play_ , Ed's darker half cooed within him.

Oswald watched as Ed walked around the table to Sylvia, a slow, calculating walk that even Oswald found daring. Intrigued by the oblivious notions of a man who hadn't seen Sylvia's true dominatrix rise, Oswald was content to let Ed experience the feeling of being manhandled on his own.

"Would you feel any remorse the next day, Sylvia?" Ed asked as he stood in front of her.

Sylvia felt the alcohol rolling in her belly, slowly burning within every vein, boiling its fire in her bloodstream. It tainted any type of submission she usually felt when Oswald asserted any sort of dominance. And that was no different with Ed; even as he stood between her legs, watching her, Sylvia's dark smile climbed to her eyes.

"I don't feel remorse the next day, Edward. And I do _not_ say 'sorry'. Trust me. Do this another day. Not tonight."

He looked at Oswald as though with permission.

"I'd trust her advice, Ed." Oswald said with an impish grin. "She's harder to handle, even for me, when she's been drinking. Half the time, I find myself on the receiving end of her indomitable will."

"Well, it's a good thing you'll be present throughout," drawled Ed as he languidly moved his hand over Sylvia's head, entangling a few of her ginger locks around his fingers. Without looking at Oswald, he added: "You can offer suggestions."

He lightly tugged her hair, her head craning back. He lowered his mouth to hers, feeling all too smug when he felt Sylvia kiss him back.

"I'm warning you."

Her voice was laced with quiet threats, but he could hold little regard for his own self-preservation.

"The last time we kissed like this…" Ed murmured.

"…Was back when I didn't want this. And I nearly threw you through a window."

"If I recall correctly, you almost put me through your door."

He kissed her softly, but this time, Sylvia's reciprocation was stronger than he was expecting. She quickly stood, lifting her hand into his hair and pulled on it hard enough that he cringed. Her foot lifted and pressed into the back of his knee so Ed lost his balance and fell to the floor, kneeling down in front of her. She smirked when Ed looked up at her, almost disdainful.

Oswald smiled widely. She _did_ warn him. So, had he.

She looked Ed up and down, referring to his current position on his knees.

"Stay." Sylvia breathed.

Ed frowned: "This isn't what I was expecting."

"Are you uncomfortable?"

"I don't care to kneel, if that's what you're asking."

"I said it wouldn't be up to you." Sylvia said callously. The grip on his hair slackened, and Ed's discomfort was lessened a few degrees. She bent down at the waist and licked his upper lip: "Can you 'handle' that, Mr. Nygma?"

Ed's eyebrow lifted curiously. She could do well to insult him and anyone else with whom she came into contact. And she knew him so well…Apparently, her talent for digging under his skin and taunting his more dominant whims were no different. Her voice egged on a darker part of him, tugging at every challenging string he possessed.

Per Ed's silence, Sylvia smiled suddenly and she let him go. Wordlessly, she walked over to Oswald, who straightened in his seat at her apparent approach. As she stood behind him, a chill ran down his back when he felt her hands start at his shoulders and ghosted over them to lightly touch the back of his neck.

"Maybe Ed is having second thoughts, Pet." Sylvia purred.

She lowered her lips to his ear, kissing the shell of it. Oswald shivered when he felt her tongue lick him. He turned his head so she kissed him with Ed watching. For Sylvia's efforts, Oswald had to appreciate her tricks; now that her interest remained with him, slipping away from Ed's evident assertion, Oswald felt Ed's jealous gaze—jealous of Sylvia, maybe, even of Oswald himself. A warmth shrouded his body in delight and appreciation for Sylvia's manipulation.

"If either of you want more," She offered, "You know where to find me. In the meantime, I'm going to find something more comfortable to wear."

She kissed Oswald's cheek and then Ed's, remotely heading up the stairs to the bedroom without so much as another word. The eyes of both gentlemen followed her until she had disappeared; and it was during this time that Ed turned his head to look at Oswald despondently.

"Is she _always_ this impetuous?" asked Ed breathlessly, standing and readjusting his suit.

Oswald stood, scooting the chairs under the table, standing near it with one hand on its surface.

"I _did_ warn you." He recollected.

"I didn't know what to expect…"

"Yes. She's quite unpredictable."

"And she moves quicker than I anticipated," admitted Ed. He ran a hand through his hair, touching the place where she'd held him with a vice. "A little more heavy-handed than I'd originally presumed. Has she always been so quick?"

"If you think _that_ was impressive, you should've come with us to take down Reese. She disarmed ten of her guards in less than five minutes," Oswald laughed amusedly. "It would've been impressive, if I hadn't been so surprised."

He started heading upstairs—after all, Sylvia had given them permission to entreat upon her offer at any given time and Oswald wasn't one to pass it up. However, Ed stopped him by grabbing his forearm. At the notion, Oswald's heart made a flutter, and when he met his eye contact, he was surprised to see that Ed's expression had changed from one of assertion and disdain to one of contemplation and reprieve.

"What is it?" Oswald asked.

Ed looked up at the top of the stairs then to him: "We both know she isn't in the mood to bend to anyone's will at this point. Am I right to assume that?"

"Very. Does that bother you?"

"Yes, but not in the way that it should."

Oswald tilted his head to the side, confused. However, Ed didn't expand on that statement. Instead, a familiar mischievous grin crept to his lips.

"I have an idea." Ed said impishly.

"For what?"

"Have you ever been able to take her down when she's behaving like this?"

Oswald smirked: "Not exactly. She almost always wins."

"When it's just you and her, correct?"

"Well, _yes_ , Ed. But it's always been just the two of us."

"Until now."

Oswald stared at him: "You're not implying—"

"Oh, yeah. I am."

At first, Oswald was intrigued, then surprised. Suddenly, the adrenaline rush that had thrilled him in a second swiftly transcended into one overwhelming sensation of self-awareness.

What Ed was suggesting, what he was even _thinking,_ made Oswald feel that much more attracted to Ed, however, in such a way he'd not been currently aware.

Emotionally and mentally, Oswald had felt that connection but it was only now that he was certain that this feeling of love possessed a physical component. Just thinking of Ed being in bed with him in the same way Sylvia had always been gave him a feeling of empowerment but also one of instant panic.

Ed would see him naked…

 _Edward Nygma would see him naked?_

"I'm not sure…" Oswald uttered uncertainly.

"We would be stronger together," Ed persuaded.

"Oh, no, I have no doubt about _that_. It's just that I've never been—"

"—Neither have I—"

"Then how exactly do we…?" Oswald said quickly, gesturing between them.

Ed furrowed his brow in concentration and then he looked at Oswald for a whole second before he took Oswald's head between his palms and then kissed him. Hard.

Perhaps the strength of the alcohol had been enough for Ed to completely cross his own boundaries, or maybe the logic of needing to kiss another man before engaging in ménage a trois superseded any misgivings beforehand. Either way, Oswald had a hard time thinking; all he felt was the other man's tongue sliding between his lips and finding his own. When Ed didn't quickly withdraw, Oswald relaxed and smiled into the kiss—grateful, appreciative, and exquisitely intoxicated now by more than just tequila.

When the kiss naturally broke, Oswald stared at him, more speechless than he'd ever been in his entire life.

"How was that?" Ed asked.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

Oswald smiled nervously, a quick blush of red covering his cheeks.

"It was nice." He managed.

"Just 'nice'?" Ed asked curiously. "Was it too much?"

"Unexpected, but, _but_ nice."

Ed nodded, taking this in then he said reproachfully, "Well, how would _you_ do it?"

Oswald shrugged and damned his modesty. He should've been used to this by now. Out of the two of them in any romantic inclination, it seemed that Ed was the more straightforward one; his behavior was so cavalier that it made Oswald feel more relaxed, however under more pressure of feeling less overwhelmed after such an event that might've only happened in his dream if he hadn't been so sure.

"How does Sylvia normally kiss?" Ed asked.

"It depends on her mood."

"If she's playful?"

"Soft and gentle."

"If she's not?" asked Ed with a smirk.

"Less than," said Oswald with a similar grin. "It's more…aggressive."

"Like she has something to prove?"

"Yes."

"Like what she just did earlier?"

"Very much so." Oswald said as he rubbed his neck. The heat from it gave way to explaining why the rest of his face was hot as well. "And when she's been drinking, she's five times stronger…harder to control. You saw how she was earlier."

"We have the advantage though." Ed remarked cleverly.

"Do we?"

"You know her. Inside and out."

"True."

"So…Let's use that," said Ed cunningly. "You know her tricks, what makes her tick."

He moved closer to Oswald, who watched him with glazed over eyes.

"Don't you want to see what the two of us can accomplish together?"

Oswald inhaled sharply when Ed kissed him again. For reasons that he wasn't expecting a second kiss but also because as he did, Ed's body moved closer, brushing up against him.

It wasn't as though Ed _couldn't_ know. He had to have felt a certain part of Oswald poking out of his suit. The knowledge of it made Ed smugger, and the smile, Oswald realized, made Ed's eyes more mischievous as the deep, chocolate browns had slowly dilated.

Having such a huge affect on Oswald who was a dominating man in general was evidently having an affect on Ed too.

When the kiss broke again naturally, Oswald was convinced.

* * *

Sylvia hummed as she readied for bed. She pulled down her dress, not even bothering to close the bedroom door. She felt the buzz of a night's imbibing pleasantly drum her mind with a welcome dizziness; her entire body felt lucidly numb, like she'd just gone through a vibrating massage. She turned her back to the door, getting ready to slip into her pajamas.

Then the lights were turned off, quite suddenly too.

She looked around, seeing nothing as her eyes tried to adjust. She was on high alert, even after she clumsily fell onto the bed after tripping over the stupid bed posts.

"God… _damn_ it." She cursed, rubbing her foot.

She started to get off the bed.

That was until a force pulled her back down. Sylvia grunted when she felt a pair of hands grab her arms, moving them behind her back.

" _Ed_!" Sylvia gasped.

"Wrong."

She turned her head in the direction of Oswald's voice, hearing him behind her, then feeling him too. Naked skin against her own, there was no part of him that was left uncovered. Then she felt someone in front of her, and she knew _that_ was Ed: his long legs, also undressed, anchored one of her legs down and she felt Oswald's do the same with the other.

"What the _fuck_!" Sylvia growled.

"Calm down—"

"Don't tell her to calm down, Ed!" Oswald hissed.

"Well, it's not as though she can do much at this point—"

"—You'd be surprised." Sylvia cut them off. She started wriggling between them.

Now that her eyes adjusted, she could see just what sort of perverted position in which she'd been placed. Forced to lie on her side, sandwiched between the two of them, Sylvia couldn't help but feel a little too hot and bothered, more than she expected. She felt Oswald's mouth on her neck, kissing softly; Ed's lips met her own.

"Let me go," Sylvia managed breathlessly. She wringed her hands, trying to get out from Oswald's grip, but the kisses he planted on her neck were so very strategically placed in her sweet spot, it was more distracting than she cared to admit.

"Touch her, Ed."

Her core tingled at that sound of Oswald's instruction. And the feeling of Ed's large hands on her neck that slowly moved down to cup her exposed breasts left her body craving more. The tips of his fingers lightly rubbed circles around her nipples, then ran over them in steady strokes.

"You like that, don't you?" Ed whispered knowingly, hearing her stifled moan.

Sylvia's body shivered. She heard him whisper how perfect her breasts were.

"Fuck you." Sylvia groaned.

"So catty." Ed muttered. "But not for long."

Oswald's free hand that wasn't restraining hers behind her back moved to her hip, then around her front, stroking her stomach.

"What do you want, Pigeon?" He asked.

"You don't want to know." Sylvia all but growled. "When I get free—"

Her threat was immediately quelled when she felt Ed's hand rub small circles just above her sex as though he was contemplating the best way to soften her otherwise aggressive stance. Even now, her legs moved to gain some leverage, and Sylvia's attempts to ignore Oswald's loving kisses along her shoulders and neck were getting less and less determined.

She was starting to break.

"What's the best way to weaken your resolve, Liv? Hmm?" Ed asked quietly. He kissed her lips again just as he lowered his hand to her bare pussy. Her intake of breath strengthened his confidence, although he did have to question just _how_ Sylvia liked to be touched. Some of it was simple guesswork.

However, Oswald's hand that originally occupied her belly with gentle, affectionate strokes, now took Ed's fingers and directly guided him to Sylvia's clit.

"Circular motion." Oswald told him. "And do it slowly."

"Fuck…" Sylvia whimpered.

"That's the idea."

"Fuck _you_ …"

Ed's dark laugh that followed sent shivers down her spine. His fingers that slowly encircled her clit, but never really touching it while his other fondled her breast…and Oswald fondled the other. Both men groping her, every part of her being used…

Her pussy was wet; her body, hungry. With Oswald's erection pressed against her butt and Ed's hard-on against her stomach, it was hard for any part of her to resist them. What was normally a determination to be the dominant one, Sylvia's manifest was gradually dissolving.

Pressure was slowly building inside her stomach as Ed tickled her clit with a flick of his finger.

Certain that she posed not a danger to either of them, Oswald released her hands. As he expected, she was nearly docile as his hand wrapped itself inside her locks and pulled her head back against his shoulder. Sylvia lifted her hand to his hair, doing the same.

Sylvia moaned, feeling Oswald's dick slowly grind between her butt cheeks while Ed continued teasing her clit, then moved two fingers inside her sex.

"Oh fu—"

Oswald cut her off, kissing her.

Ed's fingers prodding between her slit and thrusting inside. Velvet silk, tight… _hot_. It was all and more than what he imagined. The sound of her content moans drove a stake of desire between his legs, and drove his fingers to dive a little deeper.

"Keep her still, Oswald."

"Don't worry." Oswald said happily. "She's not going anywhere."

He watched Ed shuffle down to sample Sylvia's honey. With Sylvia's heightened moan that transformed into a higher pitched whimper, Oswald wrapped his other hand around her mouth.

"Is there anything that our Lark prefers?" Ed drawled.

Sylvia wriggled between them, tempted to beg for what she might want. Not that either of them had to wonder.

"What do you think?" He asked, gathering himself to Oswald and Sylvia, eye-level.

Oswald tilted his head to tease Sylvia's ear with a lick: "I think we should give her what she wants."

"But what could she _possibly_ want?"

Sylvia spoke but her voice was muffled by Oswald's hand. The two men grinned broadly at each other at her attempt to communicate then interestedly watched her hands. They moved intentionally. Ed looked at Oswald inquisitively.

"I don't even need to know sign language to understand what she said," said Ed amusedly.

Sylvia reached down. Oswald and Ed both groaned in longing when they felt her hands on both of their cocks, placing them directly against her arse and pussy, respectively.

"Is that what you want?" Ed asked. "Both of us?"

"Mmm-hmm!" Sylvia squeaked desperately.

"She's a feisty one." Ed commented, grinning happily.

Slowly, Ed dipped his fingers inside her pussy, drawing out another desperate whimper out of her before he coated his long cock with her excitement. Compared to Oswald, he was longer in inches but slimmer in girth; Sylvia didn't really need to _look_ ; she felt it, especially as Ed pressed the head of his cock against her clit, rubbing it against the bundle of nerves delicately. Her anticipated moan came just as Ed expected.

"She _does_ enjoy being teased." Ed drawled. "You're right again."

Sylvia's body wriggled, her hips moving forward to make him penetrate her according to her own timetable. It persuaded Ed, but it also intrigued him. Even in her powerless state, even as she was seemingly disarmed by both men and her own desires, Sylvia's stubbornness was impressive.

"How do you like it, Liv? Hmm?" He murmured.

Sylvia moaned behind Oswald's hand, her breasts heaving up and down in anticipation. Her hands moved, touching Ed's shoulder and reaching behind her to Oswald's hip.

Ed slowly thrust his cock inside her pussy, stroking past the opening in her slit and delving deep inside her core. His thrusts were slow, giving her time to adjust as he teased a breast, flicking his thumb over her nipple. Sylvia's stuttered moan that came after made both Oswald and Ed grin widely.

"Fuck, you feel so g— _fuck_ ," Ed groaned.

Oswald whispered into her ear. While his words were inaudible to Ed, they were slowly driving Sylvia closer to pivotal sexual madness. Her whimpers were heightening to unintelligible squeaks as Ed's thrusts increased in pace and depth. As he did, Oswald released his grip from her hair, reaching down between her and Ed.

He felt the base of Ed as Oswald touched Sylvia's clit and the feel of him made it a little harder to breathe.

Sylvia was wet, there was no doubt about it. Wetter than anytime Oswald could recollect; her excitement had collected around her pussy, between her thighs—he covered his hand with it and moved his palm to his throbbing cock, coating himself.

"Are you ready, _Pet_?" Oswald questioned sternly.

She quickly nodded her head: "Mmm!"

Oswald moved his hand from her mouth and gently pressed his palm against her forehead, pushing her head back against his shoulder so he could watch her expressive face change as he slowly moved his cock, positioning it between her butt cheeks. The head of his cock rimming the tight hole, wetting it with her natural lubrication.

Ed's heated grunts, and Sylvia's pleasurable sounds—Oswald had about all he could take. He pushed his cock inside of her, steadily, waiting for her to adjust as Ed had done. It'd been a while since he'd had her in such an intimate way, and the fact that she would be so willing and eager to grant him such a wish a second time was making this dream almost unrealistic.

Oswald slid his hand between her legs, to rub her clit.

Ed was fucking her. Oswald was fucking her.

Bodies wet with sweat, precum, and the excitement produced from her undeniably wet cunt dripping and rolling down between her thighs. Her heightened squeaks became nearly silent as Ed's hand wrapped around her throat as his thrusts become harder.

"Fuck!" Sylvia gasped.

Her hand held his wrist.

Her eyes closed, and eyebrows furrowed; her lips parted open.

"Fuck!"

"Oh hell," said Ed quickly; a sudden fear took hold and his grip on her throat slackened, and his thrusts slowed in realization that he was hurting her.

That was before Sylvia panted, "No, no, no. _Harder_."

Ed stared at her: " _What_?"

"Harder!"

He looked at Oswald, uncertain.

"Give her what she wants, Ed—She's not going to break," Oswald grunted as he sank himself deeper inside of her.

A strong desire that Ed always felt for Sylvia had suddenly bloomed into one of irrevocable, feverish hunger. Per her wish, Ed wrapped his hand around Sylvia's throat. She grinned almost too happily even as her face turned red and her eyes rolled in the back of her head as she was taken and used by both men.

Sylvia came more times that she could comprehend, her moans exceeding past their heightened volume into silent screams. Hearing her succumb to them, Ed pulled out of her, coming on her stomach; Oswald came on her lower back.

"Fuuuck…" Sylvia sighed, lying on her back. "I loved that."

Oswald uttered softly, "Me too."

"Not a lot of people would've done that for me," said Ed quietly. "I love you, guys."

"We love you too." Sylvia agreed. She patted Ed's arm, adding, "Oswald loves you more though. I just like you as a friend."

Ed cracked a grin, chuckling. Sylvia glanced at Oswald, winking at him.

Seeing as Ed hadn't rebuffed that statement, Oswald felt a powerful glow of appreciation for Sylvia speaking on his behalf.

Candidly, Sylvia sat up and shuffled out of bed to clean herself off. Ed and Oswald watched her, smiles written on their faces with gratifying appreciation (and smugness) when they saw her slightly limp towards the bathroom. Trying to show that she took it like a woman, but there was a high possibility of her being sore the next morning.

"You were right." Oswald said quietly.

"About?" Ed asked, sitting up.

"We were stronger together."

"Physically speaking, she could throw us both off the face of the earth. But it does pay to have her distracted."

"It wasn't hard."

"I agree. What were you whispering to her, by chance?"

Oswald smirked as he said confidently, "Now, Ed. I can't be giving you _all_ my secrets about seducing Sylvia. Some things are just learned over time."

Ed considered this and accepted it with aloofness…but he was still curious. However, for the betterment of keeping things easy, he dropped the conversation.

"Ed…"

"Hm?"

"Did you mean what you said?"

"When I said what?"

"That you love us." Oswald said softly, hoping that his hopefulness didn't come off too over the top.

"Of course." Ed said, nodding. "Why…Wh-why is that a problem?"

"No!" Oswald reassured quickly. "No, no, no, of course not!"

"If it came out the wrong way—"

"—No! It's fine what you said!"

Ed smiled just as instantly, knowing he hadn't passed a boundary. He patted Oswald on the arm casually and said swiftly, "I'm going to clean up as well, and maybe go to sleep. I won't admit it to Sylvia but she has me a little spent."

Oswald nodded at his suggestion, watching him leave. Curiously, he didn't come back. Instead, he'd gone to his own bedroom. Sylvia came back from the bathroom out of the shower, towel drying her wet hair as she came into the bedroom, wrapped in a second towel.

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald blinked at her: "What do you mean?"

"You look concerned. Are you regretting what we just—"

"—No, of course not!"

"Oh, good!" said Sylvia with a sigh of relief. "I thought maybe you were having second thoughts."

"Well, in retrospect, Pet, it's a little too late for _that_."

Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed on Oswald's side. He watched her, a part of him becoming self-aware that she was covered (even if only in a towel) and he, still fully exposed. However, that modesty was chased away the moment Sylvia kissed him, slow and tenderly.

His concern had been whether or not Ed meant what he'd said and that it hadn't been coaxed out of him due to such an illicit, however pleasant and gratifying, affair had taken place. Perhaps Ed had spoken the line with little objectivity—

"Be here with _me_ , Ozzie."

Oswald's attention was pulled back to her. She could always tell when his thoughts were tugging him away. Her hands ran down his chest after she dropped one of the towels off her body onto the floor and climbed on him; her legs straddled his waist as she moved him on his back. Her back straightened; her perky breasts a beacon for his hands while she used the towel made wet by her damp hair to gently clean him up. Her light touches with the towel over his waist and cock was gentle but suggestive.

"Are you ready for Round 2?" Sylvia cooed.

"I might need a little time to…"

"Don't worry."

She leaned forward, rolling her hips against his own. The swollen lips of her sex lightly grinding on his soft cock. But in minutes, Oswald knew he'd be hard again. She just had that affect. And her stern but light voice kept his attention; his desires, on edge.

While Ed was retiring for the night, Oswald knew that at least for himself, the night was still young.

* * *

Author's Note: I'll be honest; this is my first time ever writing a threesome, so hopefully, it worked out all right. ( I loved writing it.) XD


	45. Lark's Trust

Chapter Forty-Five: Lark's Trust

Author's Note: Thank you guys for the quick and positive reviews! XD I'm so happy you all enjoyed my last chapter. Phew! Here's a nice little gem, some Sylvia and Gabe bonding. 😊 (Out of all of Oswald's henchmen, Gabe and Butch were top tier, but Gabe was my favorite out of the two.)

* * *

 _Lean on Vee's_ was in full bloom the following morning.

Sylvia sat on a pew at the bar, drinking a glass of cranberry juice. She was in a surprisingly happy mood which Gabe gathered all too quickly, particularly when she'd greeted him earlier at nine o'clock with an overzealous 'Good Mooo-oooorning, Gabriellllll". And that was practically the start of an interesting day.

Gabe stood on her right side; large hands clasped in front of his belly. The atmosphere in the club was a lot more cheerful than it had been in the past with its happy customers coming in and out. Although it was curious as to why they were still occupying a space at the bar rather than tailing the librarian.

"Liv. I thought we were gonna do the thing?" Gabe asked finally when his curiosity got the best of him.

Sylvia turned her head just slightly, peering at him with a knowing smile: "We are."

"How come we're still here then?"

"Patience, dear."

"Who are we waiting for?"

She said more firmly, " _Patience_."

And that was the end of the conversation. Gabe nodded understandably, trying to see through her veiled instructions.

It wasn't a usual occurrence that he questioned her motives, or her directions in general. He was normally happy to follow her wherever she went; the work she provided was ample, appealing to his brute strength, but there were times where, just as Penguin would, Gabe noticed that she would operate on her own timetable—the difference was optimal since she normally delivered her modus operandi without any prompting.

Her stone silence as far as where their agenda was concerned was a little frustrating for Gabe. However, he tried to exercise a sense of faith, knowing that whatever it was that Sylvia was after would be gratifying work for him or something fun to watch.

Two men arrived at the bar. Twins. At their arrival, Sylvia's smile widened as she received Jack and Joel, who approached her until they stood at least three feet in front of her. It was at this time that Sylvia put down her glass of cranberry juice, and gestured for them to come a little closer.

They only did after peering at each other suspiciously.

Sylvia reached out to touch Jack, her hands slowly cradling his face between her palms. Jack's head was tilted up, down, then side-to-side, so she gave him a good once-over. He had some cuts above his eye, a small one over his lip, and some bruises on his ears from where he'd been hit with what might've been a blunt object, but otherwise, he appeared no worse for wear; his brother mirrored him in the same amount of injuries, although the locations varied.

Gabe frowned deeply. It had been fun torturing them with Victor Zsasz (even if the hitman always did take things a little too far where his 'instructions' were concerned). But now that he was a decent distance away from Victor Zsasz and within an arm's length of Sylvia, the possibility of his own due punishment for simply following Penguin's orders started ringing in his ears.

"How was your vacation, fellas?" Sylvia asked.

Gabe let out a quiet sigh of relief. _Maybe he'd be forgiven…_

"Great." Jack managed, swallowing.

Sylvia's hand gently stroked the cut above his eye; it was healed more than halfway, but her tenderness made Jack feel uneasy for reasons he couldn't understand. Perhaps it was the residual fear from the aftermath of being interrogated by a homicidal professional. Or just the acknowledgement of how vastly different Penguin and Sylvia could be after finding out their own people were tortured.

He watched Oswald torture a few people for answers—his own people, sometimes. The Penguin always had shown indifference after the fact. Sylvia, on the other hand…

"Does it still hurt?" She said ardently.

"A little," Jack confessed.

"Poor baby…"

Joel and Gabe glanced at one another, confused. Jack perceived her gentle coo initially as an attempt of mockery of his pain. But her attentive behavior, the way she brushed the hair from his forehead and smiled sadly at him…All three of them came to realize that Sylvia was being genuinely sympathetic.

"Zsasz did a number on 'em," agreed Gabe.

"Come here," Sylvia said, ignoring his comment, gently patting Jack on the shoulder and gesturing to Joel for his turn. "Let me have a look at _you_ now."

Jack quickly left his post so that his brother could stand in his place. He leaned against the bar counter with Gabe.

Joel flinched in the same way Jack had when Sylvia held his face between her hands. She did the same to him, tilting his head forward and back, then side-to-side. Joel watched her eyes move from his chin, to his eyes, his neck. She peered down at his hands and then curiously glanced at Jack's, noticing that both of them had been stabbed there.

She turned her hardened gaze towards Gabe, who instinctively took a quick step to the side and then a pace back away from where she currently stood.

"My poor boys. Don't worry," said Sylvia warmly, as she patted Joel's cheek. "You won't have to endure that type of torture again."

"Liv," Gabe began carefully.

"Not a word from _you_."

At her stern tone, Gabe was quick to retract whatever plea for forgiveness he had. He'd been serving under Penguin and Sylvia long enough to know when his words would either bounce off either of them, or serve as grounds to become a punching bag. Her glare sent a shot of self-preservation through every fiber of his being, while it made both Jack and Joel feel validated for what happened to them.

"We didn't break," Jack and Joel said strongly as they both looked down at her (She was a great deal shorter than the two of them.).

Gabe smiled a little at that. What they said was true, after all.

"I know." Sylvia said happily. "You two are so loyal, so _brave_. I never doubted you, boys, for a _second_."

Jack and Joel beamed at each other. Their hard times had measured them up and she judged them as being valuable. She outrightly hugged each of them, taking them by surprise as she displayed her open affection for them but they eagerly hugged her back, smiling at each other—not just as her fondness, but also because she was so short and it was like watching a small half-sized carrot stand between two stalks of celery.

"We have a surprise for you."

Sylvia looked at them, standing at a normal distance: "A surprise?"

"Yes."

"What's the surprise?"

"Well it's not a 'what'," Jack explained.

"But more of a 'how'," said Joel humorously.

"Almost a 'who'," enunciated the twins simultaneously.

"Really?" Sylvia said with a light grin. "That sounds very cryptic. Is this something to do with your vacation time?"

"Yes!" Jack and Joel agreed, grinning at how quickly their boss gathered this fact.

"Well, you have my attention. Let's hear it!"

Gabe frowned when Jack and Joel had pulled her complete attention. He simply stood in the background; his arms crossed over his chest. He was used to being so frequently cast aside, and while he knew Sylvia couldn't _always_ humanely speak only to him, it was hard not to feel a little jealous when someone was able to receive her undivided attention, which the twins had quickly acquired.

"We've been practicing," said Jack mischievously.

"Practicing what?"

"A little of this and a little of that," Joel returned on behalf of his brother.

"That's _also_ cryptic."

"Well, we know how much you like guessing games," said Jack inventively.

Joel nodded with agreement: "And it seemed only _logical_ if we let you guess this one."

Sylvia snickered, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you two were being a little too playful for your own good."

Jack and Joel smirked at one another and they encouraged her to guess.

"Let's see…Well, I'd say you two are pretty ambitious so odds of you actually relaxing on your vacation seems hardly possible," Sylvia said, tapping her chin with two fingers as she arbitrarily played the part of an innocuous, smooth-talking contestant on a game show.

Jack grinned at her ploy.

"You're stalling, Boss," Joel said, pointing at her.

"Well, you two haven't given me much to go on. And I find that speaking my thoughts is rather therapeutic. So, let me have my fun, will you?" She suggested evenly.

The Kabuki twins glanced at one another and cast her a forgiving glance, allowing her to continue her literal self-talk. After a moment of listening to her talk aloud, she raised her hands uncertainly: "I got nothing."

Jack held out his hand for hers.

Sylvia and Gabe exchanged curious, confused glances but she decided to humor them.

She took Jack's hand and immediately, he pulled her into a spin and had her back pressed against his chest, engaging her in a spontaneous dance routine that consisted mainly of a tango; Sylvia's laugh that came out was a combination of happiness and being impressed. She pushed off and it was Joel who grabbed her hand and pulled her against him. After, Sylvia grinned at the both of them, shocked.

"You lost your two left feet!" Sylvia exclaimed, gesturing to them wildly. "How did— _How_!"

Jack simpered, "See, dude? Didn't I say she'd be happy?"

"You didn't say _anything_ —I knew she would be. That's not something you have to tell me."

"Well, it was my idea."

"So? I had to learn it too!"

"Boys!" Sylvia said, snapping her fingers.

Jack and Joel extinguished what had been the start of a siblings' quarrel and smiled at her appreciatively.

"I'm very proud of you two," She congratulated happily.

"But we're not done."

"You're not?"

"No!" Jack and Joel said, shaking their heads.

"Well, what else do you have?"

Jack held up his hands, clenching them in a fighting stance. Joel mirrored him.

"Uh, guys," Gabe began uncertainly. "What the hell are you guys doing?"

"We've learned," said Jack dismissively.

Sylvia watched the eldest brother look at her with determination.

"The last time we did this," She said coolly. "You got both of your asses beaten. Remember?"

"We didn't know what the hell we were doing earlier," Joel reminded. "Now we do. We've been _trained_."

"By whom?"

Jack chuckled, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Are they the same people who made you want to do this stupid thing?" Sylvia questioned, gesturing to their fighting stances.

"We endured a beat down from Zsasz—I think we got this," Joel reassured. "Remember? How can we prove ourselves if you don't give us a chance? If you don't let us show you what we know. We learned how to dance—you saw that."

"I admit, I was _very_ impressed with the first half of this surprise." Sylvia uttered, glancing at Gabe with a smirk.

She pulled off her leather jacket, throwing it over the bar counter, cracking her knuckles. Under the jacket, she wore a maroon holster top and black, skin-tight capris. She dipped her hand behind her back, pulling out her handy-dandy Glock, and placed it on top of her jacket ceremoniously.

Sensing a fight about to break out, the customers in the club slowly dwindled towards the outer limits, exchanging quick whispers and excited murmurs.

"Guys," Gabe tried to deter them a second time.

"Step off, man, we know what we're doing!" Jack insisted, annoyed.

He turned to his brother and, together, they quickly devised a plan as to how to best their boss in the quickest, noblest way possible.

Sylvia patted Gabe on the shoulder: "It's okay, Gabriel. Let them have their fun, huh?"

"Just go easy on 'em."

"Aww," said Sylvia lovingly. "You're such a soft, big lug, aren't you?"

Gabe grinned at her accurate portrayal of him. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek affectionately. He put his hand on his cheek where her lips had laid contact, a large dopey grin inevitably reaching his face.

While it had such a compounding effect on him, Sylvia could think nothing of it as she met the boys in the middle of the bar—the customers had pulled together, pushing the tables and chairs out from the center so there was enough room for their hostess to throw the boys around like rag dolls.

"How do you wanna do this, fellas?" Sylvia asked sportingly.

"Weapons are allowed. But no guns," Jack offered politely, waiting for her to approve.

"So, knives are allowed?"

"Yes."

"Whips?"

"Yep," Joel agreed confidently.

"Chains?"

"Yep!" Jack and Joel both agreed with wide grins.

"If I brought in a tank, could I use _that_?"

"That's a vehicle, Boss. Not a weapon." Joel reminded, lowering his hands.

"I know," Sylvia drawled, winking at him. "I was just seeing if you were doing your homework. Red tape—it's a bitch-and-a-half. So, knives are allowed. Do you have any?"

"Nope," Jack and Joel said simultaneously.

"So, this is a fair fight?"

The bartender leaned towards Gabe and whispered, "In hindsight, nothing about this fight seems remotely fair."

Gabe nodded in agreement.

Sylvia held up her hands like the twins, however, she kept her palms open and exposed while they continued clenching their fists. The twins grinned broadly at one another.

"This is about the time when one of us says 'go' or rings the bell." Jack suggested.

"Bells, I do not have." Sylvia remarked.

"We can say 'go'," Joel offered.

"Or she can," Jack reminded.

"She can use it to her advantage."

"Well, technically, so could we."

"We need an impartial partisan," Sylvia said from her side of the center stage, smirking at them. She snapped at her fingers three times at the audience and said to them, full of charisma, "One of you say 'go' or 'start' or whatever."

"GO!" someone shouted, overzealous.

The shout startled all three contenders, and they glanced in that member's direction, impressed by their enthusiasm. Sylvia smirked when Jack and Joel used this distraction as a way of getting a head-start. Her expectations were evidently too low as they both reached behind their backs; each twin pulled out two knives, holding one in each hand.

Without clutter or clumsiness, they sprinted towards her with unremarkable speed as though their fighting masters were directly behind them. Sylvia cackled when she was immediately thrown onto her back; where they revealed clear evidence, all sure-footed and weapon wielding, Sylvia mirrored their antics with agility and hard, sharp kicks and punches.

Jack swiped at her with the knife, narrowly missing her shoulder.

Sylvia dropped to the floor, and tripped him.

Joel came at her with his knife thrusting downward.

Sylvia grabbed the arm to which it was attached and snapped it; the bones cracked three times.

While Joel let out a stifled scream of pain, Jack growled, brazenly coming up behind her. Sylvia grunted when she felt a sharp stinging against her shoulder, blood slowly oozing down her arm.

Jack fell down to the floor once she struck her heel into the side of his knee. While Joel held his own arm, sputtering, Sylvia stood, glancing down at the two of them with an unreadable expression. They looked up at her, mentally bracing themselves for whatever punishments might come but, suddenly, her face broke into the same expression after they'd revealed their newfound ability to tango.

Her bleeding wound remained unfounded as she quickly kissed both of them on the head.

"That was fucking incredible!" Sylvia enthused without restraint. "So nimble, you two are!"

"You're proud?" Jack said breathlessly.

"I'm elated!"

"'Elated'? Really?" Joel said curiously, glancing at his brother.

"Ecstatic, even! I didn't even see this coming!"

The twins grinned at each other jubilantly. Sylvia slightly winced, touching her shoulder, peering at the wound with more annoyance than pain. Blood slowly ran down her arm.

"Do you need a doctor?" asked Gabe worriedly, clamoring up to her.

"No, no. It's just a scratch. Just nicked the skin." Sylvia murmured. She wiped the blood from her arm with the palm of her hand, although it left more of a mess than if she'd just let it run free in the beginning.

"Sorry, got really into the moment," Jack apologized.

"Don't be sorry! Really, guys, it's great. Here, I thought you couldn't be taught much of anything, but you go and turn a 180, and prove me wrong."

"We just never thought you'd be so…happy…to get hurt."

"Meh, I've gotten hurt a lot more than this." Sylvia said, waving away at their concern.

"You're not going to tell Penguin, a-are you?" Joel quickly asked.

She looked at them, noticing how fast their happy, expressive faces turned into worry and, perhaps, fear? She glanced over Joel's broken arm and Jack's injured knee.

"Let's just call it 'even', yeah?" She said warmly, gesturing to her own injury.

The twins grinned at her, not really understanding how so easy-going she was about getting tagged with a weapon. She gave them a reprieve and they quickly headed to the bathroom to fix themselves up. Gabe stood peacefully beside her, happy to be the only person in her company at the moment. When she came back to collect her gun and jacket, he had a wet towelette ready; she smiled at him as he gently dabbed the cool cloth over the 'scratch'.

"So, I guess you don't have to do much of the dirty work anymore."

"What's that?"

Gabe raised his eyebrows at her.

Sylvia smirked: "You were saying?"

"Oh…I…Shit, I didn't think you heard me."

"You were muttering under your breath, Gabriel. But, yes, I heard you. So out with it. You were saying?"

Gabe smiled embarrassingly: "You've got people to do that stuff for you. You know, the extra work."

"The dirty work keeps me on my toes." Sylvia said, taking the towelette from him. Or she tried at least.

He pulled it away and insisted that he help. Gabe had always shown his bosses what a bruiser he could be. Was it such a bad thing that he also wanted his Lady Boss to see that he was more than just a door-breaker or a bouncer? He had untapped potential, something that Penguin always failed to see but, sometimes, he thought that Sylvia saw more than what was on the surface.

What was buried beneath all of his muscle, she could see all of that.

Gabe inwardly chuckled. He really _was_ a softie, wasn't he?

"The twins will do literally anything you say."

"Not to tarnish _that_ silver lining, but I heard that line before."

Gabe quirked an eyebrow; the usual sag of his face tilted into one of confusion but interest.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"Butch was the same way."

"Gilzean?"

"Mm-hmm. He was supposed to do 'literally anything' Oswald said. Then he got his brain washed again."

"I thought it was a good thing."

"It was. But Oswald relied too heavily on Butch. I did the same with Demetri…I intend on not making the same mistake."

"You can depend on _me_."

Sylvia's eyes darted from the counter at which she was staring to that of her fellow company. She could wear a mask if she wanted, hide her true emotions if the situation called for it. But Gabe saw the sadness in her eyes, and the way she peered at him made his heart yearn more than just for her favor. He wanted her unmatched, undying, irrevocable trust—the kind he knew that not even her own brother had, but only Oswald possessed.

"I'll depend on you when I can."

"And when you can't?" asked Gabe.

"We will see." Sylvia said softly.

Gabe frowned, but only because her voice projected a longing to trust people more. Gabe didn't need to be told why she had such a hard time trusting her own people. He was there when Tabitha killed her mother-in-law. He was there when Brittany and Delilah had shown their true colors, and, god damn it, he was there when Demetri did the most unspeakable things…

But for his company and his wares, Gabe knew that it wasn't his character that made Sylvia less inclined to trust him. To no fault of his own, the things that had transpired over the time he had been working for Sylvia and Penguin had made Sylvia's heart colder, harder. And even though she could tease and jest, there was still a part of her that could not rely so heavily on him—not as much as she depended and trusted those closest to her like Penguin, Jim Gordon, or Edward Nygma.

As much as Gabe wanted that trust, he wasn't sure, now, if he could stand to handle such a responsibility. Look what all three men had to go through to obtain such a thankless job, but look how grateful they could be should they ever had to enlist Sylvia's help. She would run to them if they were dying, fight for them if they needed allies, and risk her life if it meant saving theirs.

Ultimately, Gabe saw Sylvia more as a friend than as a boss. Maybe that's why he craved her trust and self-reliance more than he cared to admit.

The silence between them was deafening. But words wouldn't need to be said to convey the conversation that had just transpired.

Sylvia smiled, taking the towelette from his hand.

"Go freshen up, Gabriel. We'll be heading to the cemetery first, then to Isabella's home. We won't be stopping again."

"Got it." Gabe said quickly, and he headed to the bathroom to use the loo.

* * *

While Sylvia waited on Gabe, she casually finished drinking her cranberry juice. She pulled on her jacket, running her hands over the fine leather before seamlessly tying her hair up in a high ponytail.

" _I was hoping to find you here."_

Sylvia turned her head from where she sat, rolling her eyes when saw Alexander Beals walking into her club. He wasn't dressed in the original tie and suit as she'd curiously been accustomed to seeing him wear. Instead, he wore a pair of tightly-fitted jeans, black studded belt, and an open-collared, sea-colored long-sleeve shirt, which was rolled up to his elbows to show off his impressively strong forearms.

This casually dressed man was the man Sylvia had met before, the one who similarly dressed like her. She gave him a once-over, a cool look of indifference before she turned to the bartender, who quickly caught her indication.

"I'm assuming you're here on Falcone's dime?" She asked warily.

"Basically."

"Before you start making deals under the table," Sylvia said quickly, "I just want you to know that I'm not going to be here much longer. I have a few errands to run before the day is out, so if your deal is with _me_ …"

"No," Alex negated proudly, shaking his head as he handsomely smiled at her.

"No… 'No' what?"

"My deal ain't with you."

"Well, that's comforting."

"Is it?"

"I'd say it is." Sylvia returned coolly. She glanced at the bartender, who waited expectantly. Then she looked at Alex: "What would you have?"

"You're not throwing me out?"

"What would you _have_?"

At her stern tone, Alex cleared his throat evenly and said to the bartender, "Scotch on the rocks…uh…Please."

Sylvia smirked when the bartender nodded respectfully and left to fulfill his order. She lifted the cranberry juice to her lips, taking a small sip before she commented, "I don't think I have _ever_ heard you say 'please' to any waiting staff." She placed her cup down on the counter with a slight tap.

"Well, I've changed."

"Over night, evidently."

"I'm trying."

"You're not a chameleon, are you?"

Alex laughed, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Just answer my question."

Alex's laughter sobered as he did: "No. I can't say I'm a color-changing lizard."

"Then I don't expect you to change _your_ colors over a day." Sylvia said smoothly. She drank the last of her cranberry juice. "That said, you can drop your 'I'm-trying-to-change-so-you-can-see-I'm-not-the-same-type-of-person-you've-grown-to-despise' act."

"You couldn't even give me a chance?"

"You _had_ your chance. You used it up ten years ago."

"That was one time."

"That's all the 'chances' you get," said Sylvia smartly.

"Look, I know I've lost any chance of being with you. Romantically, at least."

"You got that damn straight."

"But seeing you again," said Alex strongly. "Seeing you after all these years—"

"—You've realized what you've been missing and you're trying to make up for lost time. I think we got that point across the other night," Sylvia remarked knowingly. "You said it _so_ emphatically… _right_ before you accused Oswald of only being with me so he can fuck me."

Alex rubbed his cheek then, with the same hand, fidgeted with his ear. It was a nervous tic of his and Sylvia recognized it immediately.

"I was justified in saying that—he was throwing stones right back at me."

"Because you baited him. If you hadn't antagonized—"

"—You're defending him?"

"I am." Sylvia said, nodding. "And not to stamp your pride into the ground, but I did try defending _you_. But you make it so hard sometimes. What happened that night—it shows me you haven't changed, no matter how many times you've tried to say or prove it. You're spineless, frequently incompetent, and you act like you got something to prove when you have _nothing_ to prove to **anyone** , including me."

"I made a mistake, I admit that."

"One mistake? You're being awfully generous to yourself."

"So, I made a few—"

"—Several, actually—"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Sylvia crossed her arms on the counter: "You're beating a dead horse at this point."

"So, I can't be forgiven?"

"No."

Alex stared at her. He might've expected an icy treatment or a fired off retort but her answer came out so calmly, so premeditated. It stumped him.

Sylvia smiled at his fealty: "You've realized you hurt me, and you've apologized so many times. But you don't get to decide that you didn't hurt me. You don't get to decide that some heartfelt apology will make up for what you put me through when you left Gotham behind. Jim was right—I cried for weeks. There were nights I wouldn't, _couldn't_ , pull myself out of bed because I was so convinced that I might have done something wrong to make you leave. I spent months, confused, trying to understand why you did what you did, driving myself _mad_.

"I understand why you left, but you could've told me. I would've come with you. Instead, you chose cowardice over bravery, and for that, you receive my pity. For making me fall in love with you, for making me think you could offer me what you didn't have to give—No. You do not get my forgiveness. You haven't earned it yet."

"So why protect me from your husband's temper tantrums? Why say that you care for me if you don't love me? Why have these funny, light-hearted conversations if all you're going to do is play with my head, and tell me you still can't stand being around me after what happened? Why put yourself through all that crap if you don't forgive me for what I did?" asked Alex helplessly. "For fuck sake, it doesn't make any sense!"

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Congratulations."

"For what?"

"Now you know _exactly_ what it felt like to be in my shoes all those years ago." Sylvia said darkly.

As she said it, Gabe came out of the bathroom. Seeing Alex, remembering him from the other night, Gabe protectively stood by her side and said coldly, "Is there a problem, Liv?"

Alex measured him up, sizing this newcomer's strength with an oppressive, challenging stare of his own.

"No, Gabriel." Sylvia said airily. "No problem at all." She looked at him. "Where are the twins?"

"They went to the hospital," said Gabe dutifully. "I think you broke Joel's arm in four different places."

Alex raised his eyebrows, curious to the statement but Sylvia wasn't in any mood to elaborate. Instead, she nodded as though this news had not come as any shock to her.

"Should we get going?" asked Gabe starkly.

"Sure." Sylvia said, nodding. "Pull the car around. I'll be out shortly."

Gabe nodded, glaring at Alex first before he turned and carried his burly self to the front door. Alex watched after him, looking at Sylvia, who tipped her own bartender twenty bucks for great service and delicious cranberry juice. It was so _fresh._

"Sylvie…"

"Enjoy your drink," Sylvia said shallowly. "Conduct your business, whatever it may be. The club closes around ten; If you don't want the police to escort you out, you might not want to be here when I come back."

With that said, she left.


	46. The Law of Snooping

Chapter Forty-Six: The Law of Snooping

Author's Note: I apologize for the late update. Got mixed up with work and relationships, family drama, yada, yada, yada. Here's another chapter, lovelies! I'll be updating more this weekend, loves!

* * *

They were parked a block away before the engine was turned off; the harsh lights were extinguished so that Sylvia and Gabe sat in the car around the corner. Gabe smiled inwardly when Sylvia reached over into the glove box, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a lighter.

She caught his look and said reproachfully, "Some habits die hard."

"I thought you quit."

"Not completely. Every now and then, I feel the hankering. Some situations call for it."

"Like this one?" Gabe asked, gesturing to the end of the block indicatively.

She nodded, but didn't look in that direction. She didn't need to. What he referenced was their place of business: Isabella's apartment, which was about a block away. A few minutes' walk down the road and they'd be at her front door.

"If it's making you nervous, why don't we just go in and do it already? Get it over with…"

"Isabella is still inside. That's why."

"Oh…"

"We'll wait here until she leaves."

"How do you know she's still inside? We just got here."

Sylvia smirked at him knowingly. She simply lit her cigarette, and took a long, steady drag before exhaling smoke comfortably through the opened window: "She and Ed are having a date."

"Right now?"

"No, he's coming to pick her up."

"What time?"

"Around noon."

"So why are we here at eleven?"

Sylvia peered over at him, smirking at his inquisitive behavior. Of course, she had expected his questions to come. He had more liberty to ask the 'why' and 'what for' questions with her rather than with Oswald, who hardly ever divulged any of his plans unless it weighed heavily in his favor. Gabe wasn't a complicated man, though. He just wanted to know the game plan.

"We're here to observe." She said smoothly.

"How can you observe anyone standing a block away from their place?"

"You can find out a lot about someone just by watching them."

"But _what_ —"

"Plenty," Sylvia answered. "You can learn a lot about a woman from the way she behaves just before a promising date. Does she come out thirty minutes before, expecting a gentleman to arrive promptly? That'd make her either observant or paranoid. Does she pace outside the apartment impatiently, or does she stand still? Does she come out before her date pulls up, or is she there to receive him the moment he arrives?"

"What would that prove?" asked Gabe curiously.

"Whether or not she's looking forward to his company."

Gabe grinned at her as she tapped her forefinger on top of the cigarette so the ashes fell off the burning cancer stick, floating and seemingly disappearing in the wind before the remnants disintegrated on the wet pavement below.

"How did you behave when you and the boss had your first date?" asked Gabe quietly, glancing her over.

Sylvia met his eyes with a smile of her own.

"I was nervous." She admitted. "And a little afraid."

"Of Penguin? I could see that."

"He wasn't 'Penguin' when we first started dating. I wasn't scared of him before and I'm not scared of him now. He was just different, acted a lot different than the rest of the guys I've dated." Sylvia said lovingly. " _That_ was what scared me. Unfamiliarity."

"A lot different, huh?"

"You met Alex the other day. What do _you_ think?"

Gabe nodded and said crisply, "A _lot_ different, yeah…"

"Just talking to him," She continued softly. "Just talking to him made my heart skip beats, and I always felt light-headed, and breathing was a difficult task all by itself. Sometimes, I felt like I would suddenly stop breathing. My hands were always sweaty" (She lifted her hands indicatively) "I kept wiping my hands on my dress, hoping he wouldn't notice."

"Where'd you guys go?"

"For what?"

"For your date…?"

"The carnival."

"Doesn't sound like Penguin."

"No, you're right. If it was up to him, he'd have taken me to a fancy restaurant with wine glasses and violins." She agreed.

"But he took you there because you like carnivals," Gabe presumed with a small smile.

"Yes. Exactly so."

There was a small moment where they both turned their attention to the apartment. Narrowed glances became softer when there hadn't been any motion around the door, and there hadn't been any cars that had pulled up to the sidewalk.

"What did you all do at the carnival?"

Sylvia chuckled, "Trying to pass the time with idle chatter, are we?"

Gabe smiled guiltily, shrugging.

To be fair, she didn't mind talking to him. He was a great listener. And it wasn't as though they had anything better to do at the moment, right?

"We went on some rides," Sylvia narrated softly, throwing the cigarette out the window. "Played a few games. Kinda funny being at a carnival with a guy who likes wearing suits."

"What'd you guys eat?"

"I had a hotdog."

"And the boss?"

"He didn't eat anything there. The food there wasn't up to his standards," Sylvia giggled. "We ended up going to a restaurant after the fact. Went inside a photo booth beforehand. I still have the picture to this day."

"Sounds like a good time."

"It was."

"Do you still feel that way about the boss?"

"What way?" Sylvia asked coyly.

Gabe raised his hands: "Sweaty palms, heart beats and all that?"

Sylvia grinned: "All the time."

"Guess you're right."

She raised an eyebrow: "About?"

"You can learn a lot about someone just by observing them," said Gabe interestedly. He indicated her overall appearance, adding, "The way you talk about him, the way your face got all red when you said all of that stuff: You still feel that way 'bout him, like all that time ago."

"Anybody can tell you that I love Oswald. It's not a secret."

"Sure, but you're still _in_ love with him. Madly."

Sylvia smirked: "Aww. So, the teacher has been succeeded by the student."

Gabe grinned at her tease, but he took her compliment to heart. She had a grand amount of power and authority, but there was no doubt in his mind that she handled it differently. After a second, Gabe's gaze suddenly averted over her shoulder to their main focus point just as a car pulled up to the sidewalk, right in front of Isabella's apartment. Carefully, Gabe watched the interaction just as Sylvia had planned to do.

There was nearly a thirty-second delay before the young librarian exited the apartment, looking back over her shoulder before she greeted an eager approaching Edward Nygma; when they greeted, they kissed one another on the lips.

Gabe glanced at Sylvia indicatively, knowing his boss was soft on the Chief-of-Staff. Come to think of it, both bosses were. Even now, he could spot the differences between Lark and the Penguin. While the latter might've reacted with a sharp hiss at the soft interaction between Isabella and Ed, Sylvia's reaction was stoic.

She barely had any reaction. Although he did notice that her eyes ever so slightly narrowed in suspicion. Her walls had been up around that woman, Gabe had noticed. Not for nothing, he could hardly blame her.

Gabe reached for the keys in the ignition to start the car. Sylvia reached over to his large forearm, quickly grabbing the one linked to the car keys so he halted from further action.

"Not yet." She ordered.

Gabe nodded, lowering his hand.

Ed opened Isabella's door first, then he got into the driver's seat promptly after closing it. When they drove off, Sylvia patted his arm and gave him the nonverbal 'go-ahead' for him to turn on the engine, and, thereby, inching forward the rest of the way. They halted in front of the apartment.

"Now," she sighed. "You can either come inside with me or stay outside, just as long you keep watch and make sure they don't come back while I'm looking around. It's completely up to you, dear."

Gabe quickly got out of the car and joined her in walking up the few set of stairs. He blocked her entire body, seeing as she was so short, barely over five feet tall. He heard the small clicking and jingling—the sound of Sylvia picking the lock before the mechanism broke free.

The moment they were in, Gabe quickly closed the door.

"Don't forget to lock it!" Sylvia hissed.

He did as she ordered. He gave it a subtle look, asking, "Why does it matter if it's locked?"

"She locked it. We have to keep everything in the apartment _exactly_ as she left it."

"Why?"

"Typical snooping law." Sylvia said smoothly. She also pointed to the extreme measures of organization that littered the apartment.

The subtle motion did open Gabe's eyes. Isabella, whether or not it was her quirk or unfounded trait, had everything _just_ so. Her bookshelves were lined with books aplenty, common for a librarian whose desires included reading every romantic novel dating back to the beginning of literature. Anything on the coffee tables and its surfaces seemed to have been measured an inch apart, adding to the quirk. The smallest nudge of an item would alert the librarian that someone (other than herself and Ed) had been in the apartment.

"She locked the door," Sylvia explained. "If she comes home to an unlocked lock that she'd locked prior to leaving, that'll put her on high alert before she even comes into the apartment. If she comes back to the check the door, I prefer the lock to be locked, not for her to find an unlocked lock that was supposed to be locked. Got it?"

Gabe widened his eyes and let out a low whistle: "I think so."

"Good. Now, don't touch anything, please."

"Since you said 'please'."

Sylvia smiled at his humor then proceeded to move throughout the apartment, peering at picture frames. Plastered on the walls were photographs and posters, artwork depicting Greek and Roman Mythology. Knick knacks, some of which were engraved riddles, decorated end tables. Her favorite color seemed to be green, as every piece of furniture, even the drapes, were some hue of green.

"No offense, Liv, but it seems like this girl is a good match for Nygma."

Sylvia gave him a glance before tilting her head at the refrigerator, mumbling, "Yes, it certainly seems that way, doesn't it?"

Her suspicion rang volumes.

Her slow pace as she lucratively studied every piece of furniture and item in Isabella's apartment was admirably engaged. Gabe surveyed her steady gaze with an enlightened respectful one of his own. No wonder why Oswald wanted her to specifically check out Isabella's prospects. She knew exactly what Oswald was looking for.

Good of Penguin to send out his most trusted enforcer.

"Remember to keep an eye out, Gabriel."

"I'm looking, I'm looking," He reassured, peering out the window for any revisit.

"She has such a compulsion for order…Loves the color, green, evidently…"

He heard her muttering to herself. Noting her observations aloud. Gabe smiled again; it was a side of her that he'd not seen in a while.

Sylvia slipped inside the bedroom, giving it a once-over.

The bed was well-made, not a single corner turned outward. The sheets were mitered; the blanket, seamless and without wrinkles. Not a single smudge on the vanity mirror or windows; the drapes were pulled over them, preserving the color inside the room.

Candidly, she wandered towards the dresser, opening the first drawer. Conservative undergarments, a few sexy pieces of lingerie—what do you know—also green…

"Ooh, _and_ lacy. Isabella, girl, you're working too _hard_." Sylvia snickered, lifting up a G-string. "Saucy librarians…" She folded the lingerie back to its proper place, closing the drawer, proceeding to the next one.

"You find anything yet?" Gabe asked.

"Nope, but I'm finding out a few things about our doe-eyed friend."

"Anything good?"

"For Ed, it might be."

"Huh?"

" _Never mind_."

Sylvia lifted the sheets of the bed, then the mattress. And that's when she found it.

The missing link.

"There you are…" She whispered.

"Liv! LIV!"

She glanced up quickly: " _What_?"

"They're coming back!"

"Fuck!"

"Come on!" Gabe shouted, storming inside the bedroom. "I think—I think they—"

"Out the back door!" Sylvia snapped. "Go!"

"What about you—"

"Get the _hell_ out of here, Gabriel!"

He quickly followed her orders, tripping over his own feet. They weren't afraid of a librarian; they were afraid of getting caught. And that feeling was slowly becoming a reality as Gabe clamored out of the back door, hiding behind the building as Sylvia pulled out her phone and quickly snapped pictures. Just as she heard the front door open, she slipped out the back, closing it with a _click_.

"We gotta _go_!" Gabe grunted.

"Hold on! Hold on!"

"What're you doing!"

"Picking the lock."

"It was already unlocked…"

"We have to pick the lock to lock it back." Sylvia dismissed. "Same principle of snooping works in reverse too, you know!"

"Well, hurry up—"

"—Stop talking, I can't concentrate when you're hissing in my ear."

Gabe nodded, rubbing the sweat off his forehead. When the both of them heard the click of the lock coming back into place, she nodded, and gestured for him to go forward. As he rounded the corner, she grabbed his arm, pulling him back effortlessly.

"Wait until they're not in front of the apartment door!" She snapped.

"But we—"

"—Gabe, if you run out from the corner to the front door, they'll definitely see us."

"Okay, okay…" Gabe mumbled.

Sylvia peeked past his large figure, seeing Ed and Isabella laugh as they got in the car, driving away. Once they were ahead, and for certain were not returning at least in the next six minutes, Sylvia egged him forward.

He started the car as Sylvia buckled her seat belt.

"What'd you find in there?" asked Gabe.

"Some lingerie."

He glanced at her curiously.

"What? I _had_ to look." Sylvia said coyly. "I wanted to know what she had."

"That's perverted, Liv."

"Oh, please. Even you must agree that she's pretty."

Gabe shook his head but he mumbled, "Yeah…Yeah, she's pretty."

"See?"

"Other than _that…_ "

"Evidence." Sylvia said calmly.

"What sort of evidence?"

"The incriminating sort."


	47. A Vow of Silence

Chapter 47: A Vow of Silence

A/n: I appreciate the lovely reviews. You all keep me writing and updating and I love every one of you. Here's another chapter

* * *

Ed had gone to pick up Isabella for their date. Where the reservations had been made or what the rest of the date entailed had barely registered with Oswald when Ed explained what all he'd planned for his and the lovely librarian's day. Once Ed had left, Oswald's suspenseful thoughts remained upon Sylvia's arrival, which came nearly thirty minutes later.

He sat in the living room, waiting for her return. As she and Gabe stepped over the threshold through the mansion's entrance, Oswald stood, ready to receive them.

Like two eager guard dogs, the Kabuki Twins strolled out of the kitchen, dressed identically in black suits with matching blood-red ties, having taken on Victor Zsasz's influence to wear their weapons in cross-backed holsters. Their hair was slicked back with a fair amount of gel; their faces, freshly shaven.

They peered at Sylvia as though they were prepared to carry out whatever instructions their mistress had for them.

"What did you find out?" asked Oswald quickly.

Sylvia handed him her phone. He looked at it questionably before he perceived the action to be a nonverbal offering for him to meander through its contents.

His disgust that appeared on his face as he viewed the gallery on her phone was gradual, his eyes narrowing and brightened with obvious aversion. Isabella tried to mirror Ed's own habits: the compulsion for order, his favorite color, the way everything literally was just _so_ …

"Is this it?" Oswald asked as he clicked through the pictures.

"No."

He heard the offense in her voice as though his expectations of her had lowered to a despicable degree. He lowered the phone, meeting her eyes. There was a familiar sense to the way she peered back at him, as though he knew he'd be satisfied with her detective skills but also displeased with whatever it was that she'd found.

"What is it?" Oswald asked, dreading the worst.

Sylvia reached behind her back and pulled out a stack of what appeared to be handwritten letters. She pulled off the rubber band with which she'd bound them together, tossing it to the way side as she laid the letters out on the table. The Kabuki Twins slowly gathered around the surface, glancing over the evidence that Sylvia had snatched from Isabella's home.

"What are these?" asked Oswald, his eyes flickering over the correspondence despondently.

"What do you think? They're letters."

His sharp, cynical scoff made Sylvia smile expectantly. Her smartass remarks were hardly welcomed at this point, and she knew it.

She picked one letter up in particular, holding it out to him.

"These are letters of correspondence between Isabella, and Mr. and Mrs. James." She explained. "None of them are signed, granted, but you can see where the letters came from based on the parchment on which all of them were written."

"How so?" Oswald asked.

"Isabella wrote her letters on stationary provided by the Marriot-de-Gotham. See the big 'M' on the top? She was staying there for some time before she started renting out her apartment…" Sylvia said coolly, leaning down briefly to get a second document, which notably dated when she began paying the rent. "…Letters addressing her as 'Isabella' are written on memorandums that were used exclusively by Aubrey James back when he was still the Mayor."

"That's ridiculous. He's no longer the Mayor. Why would he still use it?"

"Probably just happened to be the only piece of stationary he had at the time, love. Sloppy handiwork, if you ask me."

Oswald scoffed, "Amateurs."

"Don't I know." Sylvia agreed.

Oswald frowned, handing her back the cell phone. She pocketed it casually, glancing over the documents on the table with little spite while he could barely keep his own temper in check.

"I assume you've read all of these?" He asked, gesturing to the letters in question.

"Down to the last detail."

"Should I even ask?"

"You could," Sylvia offered coolly. "But I think you already know the answer to your question: Isabella was a spy… _Is_ a spy, planted on Ed to get to _you_."

Oswald frowned deeply; his features were cast under a dark shadow.

"Why?" He asked quietly.

"Why is she planted on Ed to get to you or why would she go through all of this?" asked Sylvia ironically as she sat on the couch; her feet hoisted onto the edge of the coffee table, crossing at the ankle, careful not to get the letters dirty or crumpled beneath her feet.

Oswald said irritably, " _Both_ , Sylvia. _Both!_ "

At this angry outburst, Sylvia barely had a comment. Instead, she shrugged. For a moment, all in the room were silent.

"It explains a lot, you know." She said lightly.

Through gritted teeth, Oswald said grumpily, "It explains _what_."

"Why Aubrey and Dina have been quiet, not really harassing you or Ed about winning the mayoral campaign, why they suddenly stepped aside—because they had something up their sleeve. Slandering yours and my name on television, creating libels about our criminal pasts all as a ploy to distract us from what was really happening under our damn noses, and Ed's. Isabella has been the fucking Ace in the Hole."

She clicked her tongue, adding, "The 'why' seems obvious, unfortunately. I mean, look at the facts. Aubrey is still pissed off that he lost to you for the position of Mayor. So that explains the motive to turn against _you_. Dina's still pissed because the people loved me more than they loved _her_. A bit sneaky, a bit underhanded, you know, to play with the matters of the heart in order to get the dirty deets behind the scenes, though. I suppose in a way I have to admire them for that."

Oswald stared at her, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.

Sylvia sighed, "As to why Isabella has gotten involved in this. There are a lot of reasons—money, for one. Sex is another. I doubt—"

"Sylvia…"

"Hm?"

"Stop talking, would you?"

"You asked the question. I'm just providing answers."

"I already _knew_ the answers, _dear_!"

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at his harsh tone, but she was understanding. Surrendering to his irritability, she held up her hands apologetically before she pondered something more pressing.

"How do you want to go about telling Ed about all of this?"

At this inquiry, Oswald looked at her. A deadpan stare at first, then his eyes watered to the point where it might appear that he would cry. As though he'd already foreseen Ed's reaction: "He can't find out about this."

Sylvia's eyes widened and her heart dropped. Her feet hit the floor as she sat forward: " **What**?"

"Ed can't know."

"You're not serious—"

"—I am!" Oswald insisted.

"We have to tell him, Ozzie! Isabella is a spy; she's been manipulating him, trying to get close to him—to _you_! He has to know what she is!"

" **And then what**?" Oswald questioned harshly. "What good will that do? He says he loves her—"

"He loves the _idea_ of her!" Sylvia reminded, standing. "To Ed, she's a thing of beauty, a second chance of love that he didn't have with Kristen Kringle. But really, she's a fucking parasite, planted on him to get information on you and me—she's a tool, for God's sake."

"It'd break his heart"

"Yes, it will."

"And if we're the people who tell him, he'll hate us for it!"

Oswald was panicking; his eyes flickered to the letters on the table, to the door, and to Sylvia, his hands fidgeting—the twins and Gabe were forgotten. Sylvia couldn't be more sympathetic

She stood slowly, and touched his shoulder, saying gently, "I know you're afraid to tell him the bad news but hiding this from him will not be for the best."

"He's better off unencumbered—"

"For fuck...Better a harsh reality than a pretty lie!"

Oswald shook his head, stepping away from her.

"I refuse to be the one responsible for breaking his heart," he said indignantly. "Especially if she's the one that did it. _She_ should be the one to tell him."

"You can't expect her to do that."

"Well, I can't do it!"

"You told Isabella to back off the other day—"

"—That was different!"

"She's been discovered, Oswald. She's been exposed. And she's dug herself too deeply in all of this—she's going to deny all of it if we bring her to Ed and say 'by the way, Eddie ole pal, this fucking broad has been using you like a tool'! She'd deny it up and down."

Oswald shook his head, closing his eyes as he tried to come up with a different solution.

"Isabella will not confess to this. And you can't expect me to stay quiet after finding out what a fucking rat she is!" Sylvia said incredulously. "And I know _you_ can't let Ed fall for someone whose goal is to only hurt him, can you!"

Oswald looked like he might break. Pain was written all over his face—the dilemma of letting his friend love and be marred in a world of fraudulent euphoria or to completely shatter the illusion that this perfect woman was just another person trying to get the best of him.

He could tell Isabella to back the hell away based on the premise that Ed was too afraid of hurting her. But to tell Ed the truth, that what he thought was really, literally, in his head, magnified by Isabella's apparent illusion—that was too much!

"Oswald!"

"SHHH!" He hushed, waving at her.

Sylvia snapped, "Did you just shush me?"

"Be quiet, let me think!"

Gabe and the Kabuki Twins glanced at one another, pondering the reason as to why they'd remained in the room at this point. Granted, it wasn't as if they had anything better to do today. It appeared as though they might have a job proposition coming up, after all.

Sylvia gathered the letters, rental agreements, and then from that pile, she withdrew the correspondence linking AJ (Aubrey James' initials) and 'Bella' in cahootz to spy on Ed, get close to him, and feed them information about Oswald and Sylvia's 'unattractive' exploits behind the mayoral hat. It was in the writing itself.

"I love Ed. _You_ love Ed," Sylvia persuaded softly. " _She_ is using him **against** you. Ed cares about you, Ozzie. You're his best friend. He needs to know what she is, and who he's dealing with. Better to hear it from us than reading it in a newspaper. _Before_ he gets deeper into this thing, okay? We _have_ to tell him."

Oswald glanced at her unhappily, his sad eyes tearing at her.

"No." He murmured, taking the letters from her. "We don't have to tell him anything. We simply get rid of her."

"How do you intend to do that?" She reasoned. "You told her to back off and she came back in full force. They're going on a date tonight for fuck sake…"

"Then _you_ tell her." Oswald offered cynically.

"If I tell her anything, it's going to be with a shovel to the head and a body bag in the trunk."

"If that's the only way to curtail this predicament without hurting Ed, I suggest we do that."

"Instead of telling Ed the truth?"

"Yes."

"Oswald—"

"—We are not going to tell him anything, Sylvia." Oswald ordered firmly. "He's been through enough as it is."

Sylvia stared at him: "So killing Isabella would be _easier_ than telling him what kind of person she is?"

"Yes, Sylvia!" Oswald snapped. "It will be! Now, please, go do as I say, and get rid of her! Make it look like an accident—cut her brake lines, have her run into a train, rob her and throw her body in a ditch! I don't care! But Ed can't know he was being used as some tool in a stupid game run by someone as idiotic as Aubrey James!" (He gesticulated wildly, shoving the letters off the table angrily) "I'd rather see his heart broken over some accident than have him think he was manipulated by a pretentious ass! Okay?"

"This is a mistake!"

"One I'm prepared to make."

"Why!"

"I _know_ Ed, and believe me, _this_ would devastate him more!"

"Finding out his girlfriend died would be _harder_ than finding out she was a treacherous fucking whore?" Sylvia questioned incredulously. "Do you even hear yourself!"

"You don't understand what this would do to him. Trust me. His entire logical state of mind would crash through the roof and that will take more time to repair than a broken heart."

"Ozzie—"

"Do you trust me?"

"Oswald…"

"If you do, then take those," Oswald said briskly, glaring and pointing at the letters, "And destroy them. It's the only way we'll ensure that Ed doesn't find out about any of this. Trust me, Pigeon. This is for the best."

His eyes were wide and bright; his breathing, hectic. His jaw torqued with panic and tension, and his usual calm disposition was replaced by his unceremonious blood-lust, rage-driven temper. Oswald had never looked more intense.

And while the Kabuki Twins exchanged nervous glances, and Gabe had winced at Oswald's raised volumes, Sylvia merely took the brunt of his rant with a cool, calculating gaze. She picked up the letters silently, and, without further admonishment, threw them into the fire.

Oswald appeared satisfied with her response. She stood in front of him, looking at him in defeat.

"This is what needs to happen," He reassured her.

"Sure."

"You can't tell him anything."

Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek. Oswald slightly staggered over to her, grabbing her shoulders.

"You tell him _nothing_ , Sylvia. Promise you won't."

"Fine."

He heard her submission but Oswald wasn't completely persuaded. His palms caressed her jaw and her eyes were forced to meet his.

"Swear to me."

Sylvia smiled sadly: "I promise I won't tell Ed about Isabella's ulterior motive."

" _No matter what_."

She repeated quietly, "No matter what."

Oswald smiled in relief, patting her cheek with the palm of his hand. He glanced dangerously at the Kabuki Twins and Gabe, all of whom quickly held up their hands in unison as a vow of their own not to betray their handlers. After a moment, Oswald cleared his throat quietly.

"Now, please. Do what it is you do best."

"Fine…" Sylvia said calmly as she headed out the door, turning on her heel. "I do intend to give Isabella a chance to leave town. She's been with Ed long enough, seems to like him enough, I figure she might feel a bit of an attachment to him. Maybe she'll stop what she's doing and leave. I'd like to think that despite her ulterior motive to betray all of us, she might still like Ed enough to leave it all behind for his sake."

She started to leave.

Gabe asked: "And if she refuses to leave town?"

Sylvia smiled ironically at Oswald, who returned her gaze darkly. With that said, she left the mansion.

* * *

She'd gone back to the apartment, and wrote a letter of her own which she placed on Isabella's nightstand. The odds of her and Ed having a dalliance here tonight was slim to nil as they'd most likely gone back to Ed's apartment to partake, knowing he preferred to have familiarity of his territory. So, the chances of Ed seeing the piece of paper would be just as small.

Sylvia wrote the letter on normal college-ruled notebook paper, torn out of its origin and neatly folded on the surface of the nightstand. And it read as such:

' _Isabella,_

 _We haven't gotten on the right foot, it seems. And that's partly my fault, I suppose._

 _For reasons I can't divulge on paper, I felt the need to protect you. From one woman to another, there are parts about Edward Nygma that one cannot completely understand until you've shared your most intimate secrets with him. Most women do not get very far after doing so._

 _You seem intent on being with Ed. You're a strong, brave, passionate woman for doing that. I know this because I am too. But I know something about Ed that you do not, and I feel that if you're going to be with him, you should know what I know._

 _I don't dare share his secrets on paper. I'd prefer it if we talked about it. Woman-to-woman._

 _It's time you and I had a heart-to-heart. But not in your apartment, and not at the mansion. Ed is a bit paranoid and has both places bugged—I'm sure you of all people know why._

 _Let's meet tonight on the Stone Creek bridge. It's about four blocks from your apartment. I can bring coffee and we'll take a walk, have a girl's chat. Ten o'clock, sharp._

 _Love,_

 _A friend.'_


	48. Alex Wants A Job

Chapter Forty-Eight: Alex Wants a Job

* * *

 _Nine o'clock_.

That's what her watch read.

 _One hour left_.

Before she would meet with Isabella, Sylvia drove to her club. There was nothing she needed there that she couldn't have gotten from the mansion, but the occasional check-up on her establishment was required. If anything, just to make sure that everything was taken care of, and her clientele had been cared for in her absence.

As she strode through the door, Dagger and Chilly, her usual bouncers and bruisers, smiled at her from the bar counter. Behind it was a barmaid Sylvia didn't recognize. She greeted her bouncers with a pat on each of their shoulders, "Hey, fellas, how're things?"

Dagger gave a brief grunt of approval while Chilly shrugged, saying, "All good in the neighborhood."

"Good to hear. Who is this?" Sylvia asked coolly, glancing over at the barmaid.

It was at this point that this unfamiliar woman straightened her back from being busy with cleaning the glasses and met Sylvia's stern gaze with a subdued, submissive one in return.

Chilly nodded his head to her as he made the introductions: "This is Jill. She's the replacement."

"'Jill'." She repeated coolly.

"Yeah. 'Member the conversation, Boss?"

"Can't say I do."

"You told us to find a replacement for Rebecca. Because…you know…the under-the-table exchange of favors she was doing?" Chilly recalled. He thumbed through a wallet full of bills, placed a twenty on the counter as a tip for the new barmaid, who hesitantly smiled while taking the money and putting it candidly inside the front of her blouse (she hadn't any pockets).

Sylvia smiled apologetically: "Sorry, guys. I guess it slipped my mind." She looked at Jill. "What's your full name?"

"Jillian Dane." She responded quickly. Her eyes cast downward, as though she was afraid to make eye contact with her.

"Look at me."

Jill bit her lip when she did as she was told.

Sylvia observed her.

Jillian Dane looked barely over eighteen. In fact, she appeared to be even younger, probably around the fifteen/sixteen range. She was about an inch taller than Sylvia, bigger around the waist. She wasn't fat, per se…in congruence with the rest of her body, Jill might've had more of a glandular problem than a circumstance of a bad diet and lack of exercise. She had platinum blonde hair, long, wavy curls that fell down to her shoulders; a pair of dark green eyes with the strain of trying to make it in this dark, cruel world.

Jill seemed harmless enough.

Sylvia clicked her tongue as she gave her an up-and-down, once over before she said coarsely, "What's your story…Jill."

"' _Story'_?" She squeaked.

"Yeah. What's your story? Your tale of woe? Your sad narrative. Everyone has one."

"I…I don't have a story."

" _Bullshit_."

Jill winced, as though she'd been slapped with a phonebook. Meanwhile, Dagger and Chilly, who sat side-by-side on a pew near the bar counter exchanged knowing smirks as though they'd expected newcomers to react in a similar fashion.

"I just don't have one." Jill managed to respond, although she kept staring down at her hands, which pulled at her fingers.

"Then make one up."

"Sorry?"

"You heard me. Make one up. And make it quick: I've got places to be." Sylvia said with a snap of her fingers.

Dagger grunted a small snicker while Chilly leaned to the side, saying dutifully, "Lark, if you've got places to be, Dagger 'n' me can handle the interviews and questions and stuff."

"No, it's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

Chilly coughed quietly and muttered under his breath, "C'mon, Dagger. Let's leave the broads to it, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah…" Dagger mumbled.

The two bouncers staggered off their small stools and headed towards the other side of the bar, leaving Jill to deal with the leader of the pack. Once they'd sauntered off, Sylvia gestured for Jill to follow her upstairs, to her office. Silently, the new barmaid obeyed.

Sylvia opened her door, waving her hand inside so Jill walked in first. After, Sylvia closed the door and sat at her desk; she noticed Jill didn't sit down immediately.

 _Good girl_.

"Have a seat, Jill."

"Y-yes, Ma'am. Right here?"

"Unless you planned to sit on the floor, I'd say that chair is a fine substitute."

Jill smiled nervously at Sylvia's choleric tone before taking the only chair available. Sylvia reclined back in her own seat, crossing a leg over the other and taking the woman in.

Jill was fair in complexion. She wore modest clothes, the likes of which offered very little exposure. Black knee-high skirt, long-sleeve, deep purple blouse, the buttons of said blouse were placed high above her collar bone. No earrings, no jewelry of any kind. Hardly any makeup. Bad posture, slumped over. And unless instructed, Jill never looked her straight in the eyes.

"Do you smoke, Jill?" Sylvia asked.

"Huh?"

"Do you smoke?"

"N-no. No, I don't."

"Do me a favor, and don't start."

"Yes, ma'am."

"That said, would you care if _I_ did?"

Jill laughed nervously, "It's your office…"

Sylvia nodded, agreeing with her statement, even if it did come out shaky and uncertain. For a moment, it was silent as she opened a drawer and pulled out three objects: A pack of cigarettes, a lighter to spark one of the sticks in the container, and then a 9mm Glock, which she placed on the surface for all parties in the room to survey.

Seeing it, Jill's eyes widened.

"Have you thought of a story, Jill?"

The woman's eyes stared at the weapon, her bottom lip quivering.

"I…I-I told you, Miss Lark, I told you…I-I-I-I d-don't have a st-story," Jill choked. She began to stand.

"Stay seated."

Jill gripped the base of her chair, and while the desk obscured her vision, Sylvia could already tell this woman's legs were jittery and restless. The urge to run, the need to take flight. In contrast, Sylvia took a small drag from her cigarette, slowly exhaling, allowing the nicotine to infiltrate her otherwise healthy blood stream. Calm, relaxed.

"I've been smoking a lot more these days," Sylvia admitted to no one in particular. "It's not the best thing for a woman to do—it ages you, you know. And it's expensive. They say it's a rich man's habit, and ain't it the truth…"

"Miss Lark, I don't know what you think I've done…"

"You've not done anything wrong."

Jill blinked. "That's…Yeah, that's right. I haven't. I _haven't_."

"Well, no one ever said you did."

"But why…" Jill's eyes flickered to the gun on the desk.

Sylvia cracked a crooked grin: "Oh, _that_. No, that's for something else entirely. And honestly, I just wanted to see how you'd react."

"R-react?"

"Yes."

"Dare I ask why?"

"I can tell you why. But first, you must tell me your story."

"I told you I don't have one."

"Then tell me **a** story. I have a full hour ahead of me. Use your imagination, use your brain. Think of something, anything."

"I'm not much of a liar."

"Never said you were."

"So how can I make up a story…?"

Sylvia smiled knowingly: "If I threatened your life, told you I'd kill if you didn't come up with something right now, I have no doubt that you would be able to make up something. Anyone in that position, including my husband and myself, would be able to. Personally, I'm hoping you'd take pity on me and not let it come to that."

"I'm sorry, I just don't have a sad story."

"Then tell me about your past."

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything you'd like to tell me."

Jill's face was wet with sweat. Her cheeks were pink…Embarrassed by the question, perhaps, or by something else unknown to Sylvia, who gathered that this might've been the first interview under which Jill had to face some intense line of questioning.

"Well," Jill said shakily. "I just turned eighteen…"

"When?"

"A week ago…"

"Happy belated birthday," Sylvia said sweetly.

Jill seemed unnerved by the sudden feather-soft tone her new boss suddenly acquired, compared to her strict, firmer tone she'd been using earlier. Her bottom lip quivered again, like she might cry. Still, the woman persevered, albeit uncertainly.

"I…" She began again. Her voice gave out only a second before she continued: "I-I live a few blocks from here. I-I d-don't really do much, like for hobbies."

"What do you do?"

"Huh?"

"What do you do when you're not working?" Sylvia clarified, tapping her cigarette over the ash tray.

"I sew a little."

"Crochet?"

"A little…"

"Quilts?"

Jill nodded: "Some."

"That's nice. See, we're getting somewhere now." Sylvia commended. She encouraged her further: "Tell me more."

"Uh, oh…Well, um…" Jill scratched her forehead. "Um, I don't know…I watch movies."

"What kind of movies?"

"Whatever's on."

"Do you like comedy?"

"Sometimes."

"Why do you like comedy?"

"It makes me laugh." Jill said, smiling. "It's nice to laugh from time to time. You know? Because the world is pretty bad."

Sylvia leaned forward, so Jill reclined back: "Are you a people person?"

"Sometimes. I don't mind people, if that's what you mean. But but I don't mind being alone either. It's kind of…I don't know…nice to be alone, but sometimes it's a pain in the ass— _oh_! I mean, uh, it's a pain in the butt…"

Sylvia chuckled, "You don't have to worry about swearing in front of me. I swear all the fucking time."

Jill smiled. It was the first genuine smile that seemed as though the woman might've slowly lowered her guard. The need to look good, the need to be the 'perfect' employee was seemingly withdrawn. This was, after all, Sylvia's intention.

"Do you have family, Jill?"

"Some."

"Are you married?"

"Yeah. Well, I mean, it's too early to tell, I guess…"

Sylvia quirked an eyebrow: "You've got a fiancé?"

"Uh-huh, yeah, yeah."

"Is he from Gotham?"

"Yeah. Um, he's why I'm here actually." She volunteered.

"Ah. Did you move to Gotham?"

"Yeah."

"To be closer to him, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah."

"From where did you move?" asked Sylvia curiously.

"A few cities over."

"Do you two live together?"

"Yeah…"

"What does he do?"

"He's something of an engineer. Gears, and stuff."

"Sounds like a smart guy."

"Yeah, he is. He's smarter than me, at least." Jill said quietly, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as she shook her head, smiling as she did.

Sylvia took another long drag from her cigarette, eying Jill with a cool gaze before the woman lowered her eyes once more. Embarrassed by the eye contact, or maybe how quickly she'd divulged so much personal information under so little time. Even though Jill had known Sylvia for a short time, it was clear to her that this was why the Lark was so easily befriended. She was charismatic, personable, and easy to talk to when she dropped her cynical, harsh disposition she carried with her. Jill realized at that moment that was what made Sylvia so dangerous.

"Do you want to know what I think of you so far?" asked Sylvia, breaking the silence between them.

"Um…"

"You see, I have a gift, a super power, some might say. I've an ability to read people. Unfortunately," (she put the cigarette out in the ash tray) "I can only use it on other people; I can't use it on myself. It's one of the drawbacks, you see. Most people don't like being profiled—in a way, it's politically incorrect."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Because, you see, I've never gone through any type of psychology training. So technically speaking, I can't psychoanalyze anyone but, like you, I _am_ a people person in such a way that I can read and understand people. More than they can understand themselves."

"And you think you've got a good read on me?" Jill implied, cocking her head to the side.

Her challenging tone wasn't unnoticed. Sylvia grinned the moment the underlying defiance flickered in the young woman's eyes. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished when Sylvia's mischievous grin broke through the surface; Jill's gaze cast downward too quickly for Sylvia's liking.

"I think I've got you down for the most part. If you think I'm wrong, you can tell me otherwise. Would you like to hear it?"

"Sure." Jill conceded, lifting her eyes to meet her gaze.

"You say that, but there's a chance you might not like what I have to say."

"I don't care…You're my boss, I want to know what you think about me."

"Fine then." Sylvia leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Here it is: I think you're naïve."

"N-naïve?" Jill stuttered. "I'm not dumb, though…"

"I didn't say you were 'dumb'. I said you're 'naïve'. It's a huge difference. And, unfortunately, for you, it's a bad difference. Stupidity can be useful—minions, flunkies alike, they're useful. Some, more expendable than others, but _useful_. Naivety is easy to manipulate, but don't feel bad about that. With growth, that trait eventually subsides. I've been naïve in the past as well, but trust me when I say that it has only caused me pain. Just as this city will no doubt cause _you_ pain in return."

Jill shifted in her seat indifferently, and sniffed, "Why do you think I'm naïve?"

"It's just the vibe I'm getting from you."

"Example?"

Sylvia cracked another grin. There was that defiance again.

She said sympathetically, "How long have you been in Gotham?"

"A couple months."

"How long have you been with your fiancé?"

"Six months, give or take."

Sylvia's smile hardened: "You've known your fiancé for only a few months, and you've already moved cities for him, to _Gotham_ of all places. You take a job at a bar, _my_ bar, again, of all places. That's why you're naïve. You've come to an unfamiliar land, and the only person you know is someone you've put on a pedestal, and it's someone you've not known for a very long time—first boyfriend outside of dating in high school, I assume?"

Jill nodded reluctantly.

Sylvia continued: "That, my dear, is 'naïve'. You're quiet, submissive, you don't look people in the eye—you're not the type of person who needs to be working in Gotham and in my bar. I don't know what possessed Dagger…Well, Dagger doesn't know any better, but Chilly should've known better than to put you in such a position that I feel you will not be able to handle."

Jill frowned: "I _am_ able to work at a bar. It's easy work. It's something a monkey can do."

"Oh, really? You can work here, can you? You can handle it?" Sylvia condescended. "You nearly shit your pants when you saw my Glock." She gestured to the weapon still sitting on her desk. "It's not pointing at you, or being waved in your face. It's just sitting there, and, for fuck sake, the safety is still on. And yet, you were afraid when you saw it."

"I can be good at this job, Miss Lark, if you'd let me—"

The cynical laugh that came out of Sylvia's mouth stopped Jill in her tracks.

"I've heard that so many times, I can't even fucking stand it." She grated, standing to her feet. She leaned over her desk. "Do your fiancé a favor, and yourself for that matter—find work outside of Gotham. This city will chew the both of you up and spit you out—you first before him since he's a native."

"Lark—"

"—Out—"

"—Lark—"

"—Sylvie—"

Sylvia raised her hand, silencing Jill, who glanced behind her to see another person approaching the door. The nickname alone was enough for Sylvia to gather who it was; Alexander Beals stood in the doorway.

"What the fuck are _you_ still doing here?" Sylvia asked, pointing at him ostentatiously.

"You said I could stay here until closing."

"I was being polite."

"Well, I'm glad you're back either way 'cuz I gotta ask you something."

"Not now."

"Sylvia…"

"Not _now_ , Alex." Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. Then she glanced at Jill, saying, "You know what. We're done anyway. Jill, it was nice meeting you, but I can't in good conscience hire someone as sweet as you. I'm sorry but we're done."

"But Lark…I need this job."

"Then go next door," Sylvia offered callously. "There are plenty of people who want to hire someone as sweet and ambitious as you. I, on the other hand, can't afford that. So please…"

Jill frowned but she quietly left the room. Alex watched the exchange with a subtle interest, eyebrows raised as Sylvia flagrantly sat back in her seat, looking more upset than he expected her to be. He watched her light a cigarette, noticing that one had already been disposed of in the ash tray.

"Stressed today, are we?" Alex teased, taking the seat in front of her desk.

"You have _no_ idea. What the fuck do you want? And make it quick, I've got somewhere to be."

"Trying to get rid of me?"

"I don't have time for this, Alex. So just say what you've got to say."

Alex smiled in spite of her quippy tone. He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the surface of the desk, appearing more than charming than any other day.

"You need more people." He noted. "Smarter people."

"How do you figure…"

"That girl that just walked out—Chilly hired her in your stead, right?"

"Yep." Sylvia muttered. "What a fucking mistake, that was."

"You know, if I was in his place, I'd have turned her away on the spot so you wouldn't have had to worry about doing this type of thing. Interrogating people, weeding out the guys and fucks that try to fuck with your business. You have enough to worry about without having to worry about people like Dagger and Chilly fucking up the works."

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, "Are you trying to build up to something?"

"Quick and to the point, huh?"

"All the time."

"Yep," Alex mused, smirking at her. "Okay, well, _Miss Lark_ , I'd like to put my name in the hat."

"For what?"

"For a job."

Sylvia stared at him for a whole minute before she burst out into a sharp, piercing cackle. Her head slowly sank to the desk, as she managed to keep herself from falling to the floor in hysterics. Alex, on the other hand, watched her with a serious, solemn expression. After her laughter subsided and Sylvia wiped the tears from her eyes, she let out a huge sigh.

"Goddamn, I needed that laugh." She said gratefully. "You're fucking funny."

"I was being real, here."

She snickered, "No, you weren't."

"I _am_."

Her laughter sobered as she said seriously, "Why would you want to work for me?"

"Well, you need people."

"I've got more than enough manpower. I have more than enough people who want to work for me."

"No wonder why—they like how you operate," Alex approved. "For what it's worth, so do I."

"This isn't an interview."

"I know it isn't. It's me, asking for a favor."

"I don't owe you a favor."

"You're right. You don't. That's why I'm asking for one."

Sylvia stared at him again. But she didn't burst out in laughter. She didn't snicker, or chortle. She simply stared. Alex challenged her stare with a remorseful, sincere gaze of his own.

"You don't owe me anything, Sylvie. I know I'll never be able to be with you again. I can accept that. And, clearly, being friends is out of the question…?"

"I don't want to be your friend, Alex."

"I know…"

"Do you?" Sylvia asked sternly. "Because every time we coincidentally run into each other, it feels like you're trying to establish a friendship."

"I want to make it up to you somehow. If it means working for you, I'll do it."

"I don't have any open positions for a marksman."

"Then something else."

Sylvia shook her head: "Why do you even want to work for me? Don't you have an open contract with Falcone?"

"Business is not as good in the South right now."

"Probably because Falcone doesn't have any more enemies. All the scores have been settled. He's retired—not likely gonna stir things up with a mailman who forgot to bring his newspaper."

"I'm glad my lack of employment gives you a cruel chuckle."

"Well, I'd be a liar if I said it wasn't satisfying. After all, you left Gotham—and me—to better yourself and to make a good living and look where that got you. For all your efforts, it looks like you should've stayed, but what do _I_ know about that," Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes. She extinguished her second cigarette in the ash tray.

"You're not going to let it go, are you?"

"Why would I?"

"Fair point," Alex submitted. "It was a mistake I made, and I'm paying for it. That must mean something to you. You've been taking jabs at me since then…"

"You want a job?"

"Yeah."

"Any job?"

"Yes."

"Just as long as you're working for me, you'll take _any_ job." Sylvia specified. "Even if it meant you had to be a fucking bus boy or a bartender or—"

"I'm a humbled servant who only wants to please his mistress." Alex vowed.

"And you want nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

Sylvia chuckled, "Business really sucks down South, doesn't it?"

"You have no idea."

She stood, putting the Glock in between her back and the waistband of her jeans, pulling her shirt over it. Alex watched her do this, his eyebrow quirking upwards interestedly.

"Looks like you've got some business to take care of." He noted.

"You're really perceptive." She uttered sarcastically. "What gave it away?"

Alex smirked: "I can help in that department."

"The help is appreciated, but not necessary. I can take care of it myself."

"You know I'm only looking out for your best interests."

"Again—appreciated, but not necessary. I have more than enough people doing that for me."

"So, what about my proposition?"

"I still don't know why you'd want to work for me. You could literally find any employer who'd have you. Why me?"

"Like I said," Alex said modestly. "I like the way you operate."

"You'd be obeying me. Carrying out my orders. That doesn't strike you as weird?"

"I've seen how you treat your subordinates. They seem pretty happy to work for you. More than Penguin, anyway. Like, I've seen how you treat your big guy…What's his name…"

"Gabriel." Sylvia hinted.

"Yeah, that's him."

"I treat my people as well as they treat me."

"And how would that work out for us?"

"Not well."

"Why?"

Sylvia sighed deeply, rubbing her eyelids with the exhaustion of one who'd had one too many of the same conversation.

"They call you 'Liv' and 'Lark'. You talk to them like they're your friends." Alex continued. "Your people are afraid of you, but they respect you too."

"How do you even know this?"

"I've talked to them. They know if any of them got into trouble, or were facing some type of punishment from another Boss, you'd have their back. You'd go to war for them."

Sylvia didn't try to deny his claim. It was true, after all. If Gabe got into trouble, she'd be there for him. She'd paid off Chilly's debt to Falcone, which indebted him to her; He'd paid off his debt months ago, but Chilly was smart enough to know what his loyalty to Sylvia meant to him and everyone else around him.

"I know I'll never be able to be your boyfriend again, maybe not even your friend. But I wouldn't mind being on an employer-subordinate basis with you like what you have with your boys or Gabriel. Isn't that something we can have instead of all that other stuff?"

"Probably not."

"Why?"

"I trust Dagger and Chilly. I trust Jack and Joel. I trust Gabe," Sylvia said quietly. "I _don't_ trust you."

Alex raised an eyebrow: "How can I prove that you _can_ trust me?"

"When you know the answer to that, then you'll have all the answers, won't you?"

She locked the cabinet doors of her desk, checked her pockets to make sure she had everything she needed and headed towards the door.

"Hey…"

She looked at him.

"What's the verdict on the job idea?" Alex asked, standing to his feet. "You'd really be helping me out. I know I don't deserve it, but…"

Sylvia clicked her tongue. "I'll think on it."

Alex smiled gratefully.

"My earlier statement to you reigns true, however," She reminded as she stood in the doorway. "Be gone after closing, otherwise the cops _will_ come."

"And they'll arrest me?"

"If it's Jim that responds, they'll probably shoot you on sight."

"Fair enough."

"Good night, Alex."

"Good night, Sylvia."

Sylvia gave him the 'mind me' warning look before she left the club.


	49. Stone Creek Bridge

Chapter Forty-Nine: Stone Creek Bridge

Author's Note: I apologize for the month-long delay. I was going through a burnout, but I'm back and I'm on vacation so hopefully, I can get a few chapters in 😊 Thank you for your patience, and here's the chapter.

* * *

 _Stone Creek bridge._

The location itself was moderately reclusive, but easily the one of most peaceful places in Gotham. In a city that was so deeply plagued with crime, some of which was Sylvia's doing, the bridge almost seemed like an island, a small earthly utopia where violence might have been abolished. This was mainly due to the silence it provided away from most of the city. It seemed to be a hundred miles away when one stood on the bridge due to its solidarity. The only factor that prevented it from being so exclusive was the vibrations along the wall which were due to the vehicular stampede below; even then, the traffic seemed more like a white noise than anything due to the circumstances (for save the frequency of a semi-truck).

The stone-like walls that cradled the man-made arch was cool to the touch, made so by the rainfall having passed only thirty minutes prior to Sylvia's arrival. Such alabaster stone seemed to glow under the moon above; the crescent was generous with its light, until a few clouds covered it, leaving the bridge under an eerie shadow before they passed as they always did.

Meeting anyone on this bridge in the dead of night was an eerie circumstance itself. When one combined Sylvia's dark, swarthy, maroon cloak and the black attire she adorned for just these inconspicuous occasions, the odds of her intimidating Isabella were in her favor. While it wasn't her intention to scare the woman (just yet), Sylvia certainly wanted her to know that she wasn't messing around.

Isabella's obvious crime was deceiving the Chief-of-Staff in order to retrieve information from him about the Mayor and whatever secrets the latter might behold. Her treachery to the authoritative figure was an easy arrest—to the maximum, Isabella could be held in contempt for espionage, if the GCPD had any say.

On account of that, she would be arrested.

However, for using Ed in the worst way possible, by mimicking his first love, Sylvia found her true crime offensive and that warranted her death. Oswald wanted her dead, and for his own obvious reason. She'd be lying if she said she didn't want the same thing just so Oswald could be happy again.

But there was a part of her that wanted to see the good (and sometimes the best potential) in people, even if they could not see it in themselves. Sylvia wanted to give that sneaky little snake the benefit of a doubt. Could Isabella truly have feelings for Ed? And if she did, and she was discovered (as she clearly had been), would Isabella step down, reveal her true exploitative intentions, and walk away before anyone, including herself, was harmed?

Sylvia hoped she would.

That was the point of meeting her at this hour, long after Ed might have gone home after Isabella had fought to keep him, and long after Isabella would have returned to her apartment, read the note, and (knowing her personality) would have come to meet the person who claimed to want to help her in the long run with Ed's homicidal urges.

Whether Isabella came alone or with company…That was something entirely different.

Would she have an assassin with her? Would Isabella be so bold to use a gun on her when Sylvia exposed her of her true identity? Even now, Sylvia felt eyes on her…her paranoia eating away.

It was only at that moment that Sylvia decided to take out a cigarette, light it, and inhale its nicotine…She coaxed herself to calm down—after all, she only intended to have one. She'd never smoked so much in her life until Isabella popped into the picture.

And for a woman who seemed so innocent, her entire persona—the hair, her actions, her likeness to Kristen Kringle—drove Sylvia to anxiety. Not because she feared Isabella…but because she knew there was a chance that she'd have to get rid of the woman Ed claimed to love. Ultimately, getting rid of Isabella did not mean hurting _her_ …She and Oswald would be hurting _Ed._ And that's what Sylvia feared the most.

The low rumbling of a car pulled Sylvia out of her reverie, a reprieve for which she was most thankful. The feeling of someone watching her had grown most unsettling. The arrival of a silver vehicle with tinted windows didn't exactly relax her any more than her thoughts of Isabella's toxic motivations but paranoia was a hell of a nightmare—the reality of such a distraction was appreciated.

The silver vehicle was parked a block away, under a street lamp. From its compartment, a redheaded woman with glasses stepped out. She wore a dark-colored jacket appropriate for Autumn, smoothing down her blue plaid skirt as she strolled in Sylvia's direction, meeting her on the Stone Creek bridge.

Sylvia smiled unhappily, her nose crinkling in disgust.

This woman…. Isabella…Not only did she look like Kristen Kringle before, but now with her hair dyed rose-red, Isabella was the perfect illusion of her. A walking apparition, a tangible depiction of a ghost.

Isabella sidled beside Sylvia, looking at her keenly. Sylvia pulled down her hood so she could clearly see her, in spite of the shadow the clouds created above them.

"Well…" Isabella began.

"Yep. Surprise, it's me." Sylvia mused. "Coffee?"

Isabella's eyes darted to the drink carrier placed on the half-wall of the bridge; it held two plastic cups, filled with coffee, just as she'd promised in the letter. They were both capped with a lid. With steady hands, Isabella slowly took the first cup; Sylvia took her own, uncapping it so she could take a drink. Both women never dropped their eye contact, as though they sized one another up.

" _You_ left the letter." Isabella said quietly.

"I did."

"You've been in my home…?"

"Twice." Sylvia answered nonchalantly. She sipped from the hot cup, smiling in spite of the situation: "I get coffee from Dover's for this reason, you know. It's always hot, and comes naturally sweetened. I didn't know what you'd prefer, so I had sugar put in yours."

"Is that all you put in it?" asked Isabella dryly.

"Nah."

Her eyebrows raised.

"I put two creamers in there too."

Isabella frowned, having expected the worst. Sylvia smirked, knowing this. It was fun to play with people, especially when they always thought they were two steps ahead of her.

"Why were you in my home?"

"For the same reason you've been in mine," Sylvia answered coolly.

Isabella stared at her. Softly she whispered, "Because of Edward?"

"Ding, ding. That's correct."

Isabella cleared her throat uncomfortably. She took a few sips of coffee before she sat it down on the wall behind her, glancing down at the bustling traffic despite the late hour. Her eyes darted down to it then to Sylvia, who watched her all the while.

"Is your name _really_ 'Isabella'?"

She nodded: "Yes. Is your name really 'Sylvia'?"

Sylvia smiled and said smoothly, "No, it isn't."

"That's how Ed introduced you though…"

"Yes," Sylvia lied. "It's an inside joke."

"Since we're here…" Isabella uttered, gesturing to the bridge. "I think it's fair that if you know my name, that I get to know yours."

"Oh, that would be 'fair'? I didn't realize that you liked things to be fair, but fine. We can do this your way for now. Let's do introductions…properly, shall we?"

Isabella held out her hand. It was trembling: "My name is Isabella."

"Tabitha." Sylvia answered sweetly, taking and shaking her hand. "My name is Tabitha. A couple of truths, then—I own a club about ten miles that way" (She gestured behind her) "and, since we're doing this your way, I'll admit that not only have I been in your apartment _twice,_ I've also been in your bedroom. Specifically, under your mattress."

Isabella frowned.

"That's right, sister." Sylvia breathed, stepping towards her. "I know _all_ about your illicit affair. Your backhand dealings with Aubrey James, your act with Ed, and all the nitty gritty details behind it. So whatever act you were planning to use on me, cast it aside, because I'm not about to fall for it or you."

For a moment, Sylvia was certain Isabella might cry. Her blue eyes watered, her eyebrows knitted together in obvious distress…and then suddenly, she appeared moreover calm in that way. With such a mood, she sipped more from her coffee cup, then sighed in relief.

"Well, I'm so happy I don't have to pretend around you, Tabitha," Isabella said with a smile. "It's a task in itself trying to pretend to be someone you're not."

"Most people who find it difficult aren't trying to escape from themselves. So that tells me you're okay with being a sneaky weasel, or you're just too happy to do the job that's asked of you," Sylvia returned darkly. "Frankly, it's disgusting."

"You're the Penguin's enforcer. You've had to do plenty of stuff that _I_ find disgusting, so don't pull rank on me."

Sylvia grinned broadly at her.

Where was this sass that she'd hidden from Ed so clearly from view? Her snappy retort had come too easily, as though she'd been ready to fire it off the first chance she had. Sylvia leaned her hip against the half-wall, looking at Isabella with a new light, and not necessarily a good one.

"Penguin is a criminal, just like the rest of them," Isabella declared. "What Aubrey and Dina said is true, and you and Penguin have been trying hard to deny it…For what it's worth, the people of Gotham believe what you say—it's impressive, actually."

"I don't see why. Oz and I are charismatic people. They like listening to us."

"You're the worst thing to happen to the mayoral position."

"Some people would disagree with you."

"Well, some people would agree with me too."

"Can't please everyone," Sylvia said carelessly. "But you're not preoccupied with that fact, are you? You care more about earning your pay, which doesn't really bother me. It just happens to involve someone I care about and _that's_ what bothers me."

"Ed."

"Of course."

"Ed's a good man," Isabella said lightly. "A criminal, in a way, but it's kinda hot being so close to danger, playing with fire, and yet, it's a little disappointing…For someone's who's been to Arkham, I expected him to kill me."

"If I'd not intervened, he might've." Sylvia offered coolly. "He has his own little violent tendencies."

"I know."

"You know?"

"Well, he chokes me from time to time, but that's nothing I can't handle."

"I'm all too aware. You and him finally did the dirty, didn't you?"

"We did tonight."

"And you were dressed like that?" Sylvia asked, gesturing to Isabella's look-alike appearance to Kristen. "The hair, the glasses, all of that?"

"Yes." Isabella cooed. She touched her hair pointedly adding, "He even told me to keep the glasses on."

"Well, I couldn't blame him for doing that. Honestly, given the chance, I'd rather fuck Kringle's ghost than a librarian like you," Sylvia retorted smoothly.

Isabella frowned—for that, Sylvia grinned. The woman thought herself to be a criminal mastermind, a master of the spy and disguise, but for someone who had such a high opinion of themselves, Isabella was so easily offended.

She stepped forward, leaving Sylvia to watch her carefully.

"You're trying to get me away from Ed, is that it? Trying to do what your small, little husband couldn't."

"Insulting my husband in an attempt to get under my skin? That's weak, Isabella. Even for you. Most people find that a turn-off…I wouldn't be surprised if Ed thought it was."

"Regardless, it seems to work. Got _you_ to respond, and so vindictively too."

Sylvia smiled harshly: "You think I've been 'vindictive'? That's so sweet."

"You know, Ed talks about how you're overprotective of Penguin. How you coddle him, how it annoys him so much that you do everything in your power to keep Penguin happy. That's why you carry out his orders, isn't it? So, it keeps him happy?" Isabella questioned.

"No wife wants to see her husband displeased."

"You do what you can to protect him—even if it means covering up for his misdeeds."

"Obviously."

Isabella leaned forward, smirking: "Maybe that's what Ed can't stand the most about **you,** _Tabby_ …"

Sylvia held up her hand, pushing Isabella away from her.

"First things first, _Bella_ —I assume we're on a pet-name basis since you so freely called me 'Tabby'. Has it ever occurred to you that Ed might be annoyed by what I do for Oswald is primarily due to the fact that he wished someone would do the same for him? Ironically, that's not going to be you, so the reason as to why you're trying to advocate for Ed's complicated emotions towards my marriage is odd. And, secondly, Ed may like _you_ so physically close to him, but let's keep the distance at an arm's length, shall we?"

Isabella smirked: "I heard you _liked_ women."

"I do. Just not _you_." Sylvia responded. "And you're also right about me wanting you to stay away from Ed. You're getting into his head—"

"—I'm _in_ his head—"

"—Frankly, it's not a good place to be. Ed might like you, but _he_ doesn't. And ultimately, it's _he_ who controls him."

Isabella blinked: "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Not 'what'. 'Whom'." She corrected. "Ed is the one who controls the body, the one who's sensitive, the feely-guy, the one who fawned over Kristen Kringle and is the same person who claims to love _you_. That's all nice and dandy, but the _real_ Ed, the one who killed Kristen—I don't think he cares that much for you. And after a certain point in time, he'll break through and kill _you_ too."

Isabella frowned deeply: "You're trying to scare me."

"True, but not everything I wrote in the letter was a lie. There _is_ a side of Edward Nygma that you don't know. It's a side I've known from the word 'go'." Sylvia warned. "He's vastly more intelligent than for what anyone gives him credit, and he's a little more than just 'someone who's been to Arkham'. You think he won't hurt you because you look like Kristen Kringle? You might be wrong about that."

"He conquered his fear tonight," Isabella declared loudly. "He won't hurt me. Not even when I look like this."

"Again. He might not. But _he_ might. You're not the ruler of one heart when it comes to Ed, darling. You have to own both of them, and, frankly, I know _you_ don't!" Sylvia responded harshly. "I think you're a phase, an illusion, and from what we've both discussed, you _are_. You are fucking with a person I care about, fucking with his mind, fucking with his heart, and you're pissing me off!"

Isabella stepped back when Sylvia strode towards her.

"I'm not backing off. If you thought I was playing around—"

"When Oswald told you to back off, _he_ was serious. When you said you'd fight for Ed, I know _you_ were serious. Neither of us are playing the field. That's been made pretty fucking clear at this point, don't you think!"

Isabella stared at her. Sylvia returned the glare. Then, Sylvia inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. When she opened them, the anger she'd demonstrated was gone, and in place of it was a dark, calculating expression that startled the librarian enough that she put a little distance between them.

"You're getting paid to spy on us," Sylvia uttered lowly. "You're basically getting paid to fuck Ed, to use him in order to expose our secrets. Lord knows I'm not in any better of a position to—how'd you say—'pull rank' on anyone, but for what you've done to my best friend, you—more than anyone—deserve to die."

Isabella's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, but that was the only sign of fear. Everything else—her lips, her eyebrows, her steady hands—reflected that she was not in fact afraid of Sylvia, who smiled sadly at her.

"For what it's worth," Sylvia sympathized. "I know what it is like to be with Ed. You might just have some real feelings for him. I'm kind of counting on it. I'm kind of hoping you'll give you and me—the both of us—a way out."

"A way out? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

Isabella lifted her chin so she appeared confident as she inquired, "What way would that be, if I chose it?"

"You get your shit out of your apartment, you change your name, and you no longer speak to Ed—be it in any form of correspondence including written, verbal, texting, email, _nothing_ ," Sylvia threatened. "You put all your shit in your car tonight, you mail the rest to whatever rock you managed to slither out from beneath and you stay the _hell_ out of my city."

Isabella crossed her arms, glancing down at the stone path beneath them.

"If you do this, no one will come out to find you. No fraudulent charges will be filed against you. And none of my men or Penguin's men will hurt you. That is what is on the table." Sylvia promised. "That's the only way you get out of this."

Isabella searched the ground for answers, for a decision other than the one that had been proffered.

There was a scuffle nearest to them. Sylvia and Isabella glanced to see a homeless man making his way towards the bridge. He had on a pair of darkly tinted glasses, carrying a large stick as he made his way nearest to the bridge before finding that it was so; he took a moment to ponder if he'd get over its arch, but seemed to rethink its merit as he staggered back to the sidewalk.

When Isabella turned her attention to Sylvia, she was startled to see the woman's piercing blue eyes staring back at her.

"I love Ed," Isabella whispered.

"No, you don't. If you did, you wouldn't be doing this to him. You'd have revealed yourself to him a long time ago."

"What if I did?"

"What?"

"Yes," Isabella breathed, stepping closer to her. "What if I told Ed what I was doing? What if I confessed?"

Sylvia crossed her arms, peering at her skeptically: "That won't happen."

"B-but you're right, Tabitha. You're right! I do love Ed. I do. And by lying to him—"

"Stop."

Isabella's lips parted in a way that she'd continue speaking but hearing the disheartened command leave Sylvia's mouth might as well had been a belted-out demand for her to shut the hell up. Sylvia shook her head, clasping her hands over her face.

"What?"

Sylvia looked at Isabella: "You're lying."

"I'm not—"

"—but you _are_. You're just saying this to make me complacent, to lower my guard," Sylvia said knowingly. "I know that's what you're trying to do."

"Maybe you're right."

"I know I'm right."

"Well, then, it seems we've reached an impasse," Isabella sighed sadly.

Sylvia nodded: "It seems that we have…"

Isabella looked at Sylvia. Sylvia looked at Isabella.

Suddenly, Isabella grabbed Sylvia around the neck, and thrusted her weight forward. Sylvia's back struck the wall of the bridge and in a frightening second, she felt her feet lift off the ground!

The roar of the traffic beneath—cars and semi-trucks thundering across the pavement—made the walls of the Stone Creek bridge vibrate.

"I'm sorry—but no one can know! I've come too far! I'm in this too deep!" Isabella shouted.

Her fingers tightened around Sylvia's neck, as she tried her hardest to push her off the bridge to the stampede of vehicles below. To no avail, Isabella released her throat, then grabbed Sylvia's legs and hoisted her up. It was at this moment that Sylvia began fearing for her life.

"Isabella, stop!"

"I'm sorry, Tabitha! I'm sorry! But I can't—I don't—have a choice—just stop fighting!"

"Don't—!"

"JUST FALL OFF THE FUCKING THING!"

Without any leverage to pull, Sylvia felt her body being pushed forward off the wall. Her body rolled over.

" _ **Oh fuck!"**_

Sylvia clung to the wall with her hands, her feet dangling. The alabaster was still damp from the rain—

She couldn't hold on!

 _No_! _Stop…please….!_

Was she screaming it? Was Isabella?

Sylvia's legs kicked, trying to gather the momentum to lift herself up. But steadily, Isabella was prying her hands off.

"LET GO, you _bitch_! Who are you! No… _no_!"

Then suddenly, Isabella was struck down. Not just struck… _shot_!

Sylvia was hyperventilating.

 _Catch my breath, have to catch my breath—get up…get up, catch m-my breath, catch it, catch my breath, up, Sylvia, up, get up, while you can, get up!_

Sylvia whimpered as she pulled herself up, clattering her foot over the wall and falling onto her back. She heard Isabella's crying, her whimpers heightening to painful sobs as she held her arm where she'd been shot with a nine-millimeter bullet.

Sylvia glanced up wearily, seeing Alex stride forward. His walk, the way he coarsely followed the path until he stood over Isabella was almost professional, almost completely detached of emotion until he glanced at Sylvia worriedly.

"Can't get rid of me!" Isabella shouted painfully at her, her 'innocent' façade completely evaporated in place of being injured. "I'll go to the police! I'll tell Ed! I'll tell him what you've done to me! I swear to god, Tabitha…I'll tell Ed…I'll tell him!"

Sylvia grunted as she got to her feet.

"Want to leave her here?" Alex asked breathlessly.

" **Fuck** her. She just tried to kill me!" Sylvia growled. She brushed the hair from her eyes. "Help me, would you!"

Alex nodded, throwing the gun to the side: "No problem, Lark."

Sylvia and Alex lifted Isabella. Then before Isabella knew what was happening, they tossed her over the bridge.

"TABITHA! NOO!"

Even from the bridge, the sight of the vehicles running over her body was enough to make Sylvia wince. The screeching sound of drivers slamming their brakes to avoid the mangled body of a redhead rung in her ears—Alex cringed and glanced away while Sylvia watched.

"Let's get out of here!" Alex urged. He smirked slightly, adding, "Come on, Tabby. Before people start swarming."

"Fuck her!" Sylvia snarled, spitting down at the street below them.

"Come _on!_ "

Alex grabbed Sylvia by the arm, pulling her away from the bridge. They quickly and quietly made their way back to Alex's car; he cranked the shift gear into 'drive' and started heading for the city.


	50. Debt Repaid

Chapter Fifty: Debt Repaid

* * *

Alex parked the car in front of the old Van Dahl mansion, having driven to the location per Sylvia's directions. She sat in the passenger side, not having said so much as a word. It was only when the car came to a full stop and he turned off the engine that she met his eyes.

"You were spying on me."

Alex had expected as much. He knew he'd not be able to dodge what was the inevitable line of questioning to come from having arrived at the right time. However, he had expected a harsher tone, rather than the light, knowing tone that exhaled from her lips, the same tone that was used at the realization that a movie was no longer playing in the theater.

"Yeah." Alex confessed, nodding.

"Why?"

"' _Why'_?" He repeated with a small laugh. "You tell me you've got business to take care of and say you've got it handled. It just sounded like something might go down. I told you I had your best interests at heart."

Sylvia sighed, looking up at the roof of the car.

"What, are you mad?" Alex asked curiously.

"No…I normally would be…but…you saved my _life_. Just trying to process it, is all."

"You seem surprised."

"Frankly, I am."

"Can't imagine why…She was trying to kill you, so I did what any good ex-boyfriend would do. If anything, I'm surprised that she was able to get the upper hand in the situation," Alex admitted sheepishly. "With all your fight and gusto—"

"She literally through me over the edge!" Sylvia reacted defensively, pointing at him. "Gravity is a hell of an ally when you have it on your side!"

Alex raised his hands, chuckling: "Hey, I was just the bystander…Just saying what I saw."

He smiled a little when she laughed quietly, but her face tinged a bright pink with the embarrassment of it in general.

The last person she thought who would ever save her was Alex…moreover because he was an idiot more than half the time.

"Are we okay?" asked Alex.

She nodded.

"You better get inside," Alex reminded. "I know Penguin's gotta be worried about you after all this."

"You sound like you care about that."

"I really don't, but I'm honestly doing my best to pretend I do."

Sylvia snorted, "You're ruining all of your hard work by admitting it openly in front of me."

"Just trying to lighten the mood."

"Unfortunately, it's working."

Alex cracked a grin and stepped out of the car. He followed the hood and approached her end, opening the passenger's side. Her eyebrow raised questionably at his gentleman-like gesture, but she stepped out wordlessly, not bothering to comment on the uncharacteristic moment.

"At least you know I don't want you dead." Alex offered humorously.

"Because if you did, you've had plenty other opportunities to kill me, including the several past encounters we've had where we've been alone."

"Or, even better, I'd have had that chick do the dirty work for me."

"You've never wanted me dead."

"True, it was the other way around." He reminded casually.

Sylvia crossed her arms, leaning her back against the car door after Alex closed it. He stood beside her, smoothing back his hair.

"I never said I wanted you dead."

"The other day…at the party—?"

"I said _Oswald_ might want you dead," Sylvia recalled. "As many times as you've vexed him—"

"—That reminds me. Look, about that day…"

She looked at him expectantly.

"What I said about Penguin, how people like him only wanted to fuck girls like you…"

"It's fine…"

"No, it's not."

Sylvia stared at him, surprised by his sudden admission of fealty. Alex wasn't the type to apologize and really mean it. Instead, he often said things like 'Just kidding' when, really, it was something farthest from a joke. The jock charm he sometimes tried using on her in the past never worked before, but when he was as honest as they come, it struck a chord.

Alex appeared in pain as he tried to articulate his thoughts. Being honest—Being a 'real' person was like trying to regurgitate a badly ingested meal—he knew he'd have to do it eventually, but the longer he tried putting it off, the harder it was to do.

"Look, being this touchy-feely person ain't me…"

"I think that's an accurate description," Sylvia agreed, smirking.

"Hey!"

But Alex smiled at her effort to take the stress off the situation. It worked too.

"We been through a lot," He started again. "And I'm not just talkin' tonight. Since you came down South, seeing you again—"

"We've had this conversation before, remember? You said you had feelings for me, and that—"

"—When I had this conversation, I was just trying to impress you."

"Well, that certainly backfired on you, didn't it?" Sylvia returned. "That whole meathead culture doesn't work on me. _You_ know that. And half-assed attempts of sincerity don't work on me either."

"I know, I know, I _know_." Alex uttered, rubbing his forehead. "I know what it looks like, okay? I'm this stupid ex-boyfriend who's trying to do all he can to show his ex-girlfriend that he's a changed guy but, really, the more I try, the worse it looks. I _get_ it. And I come off as jealous, and trying to overcompensate—"

"—All true—"

"—And I know that my efforts to make Penguin seem like an idiot are bad—"

"They're the worst displays of effort known to man—"

"—Sylvia, can you stop that?"

Sylvia grinned again: "You're just saying everything that _I've_ said in the past."

"But this time I mean it."

"So, the other times, I'm guessing that was your attempt to appeal to my humanity?"

"No, it's not that."

"So, what is it?" Sylvia questioned, turning towards him. "Stop trying to tell me what I want to hear, and tell me what _you_ want me to hear. Stop feeding around the goddamn bush, stop trying to read my mind—stop acting like whatever you're going to say will make me reject you. You did this the _entire_ time when we were together. Just be _you_ , and tell me—"

"I don't know what to say when I'm around you, okay!" Alex responded indignantly. "Everything you say to me—good or bad—it just kills me. When you're not around me, I don't know who I am or what I'm fucking doing. I felt that way for _years._ Then you come down South to help Mario with his engagement party and, I don't know, it just did something to my brain. When you're not around me, I'm lost, and I don't know myself.

"But when you were there with me—even just standing around me—I _know_ that I am the idiot ex-boyfriend who can't amount for shit. I'm the ex-boyfriend who ruined everything because he was a stupid fucker, thinking you wouldn't accept him if he didn't have money, or fame, or respect. When you were there, I felt like an idiot all the time when you and I talked, and you made me feel like an idiot and the dumbest piece of shit, but I preferred that than the other.

"At the same time, you call me out on all my shit—you tell me I'm a liar when I am; you call me a coward when I am, but you're just so professional when you do, and honestly, it makes me feel so dumb because you're the only person who's ever gotten so fucking close…it makes me feel fucking naked and I don't like it half the time."

He inhaled deeply after letting all of that out. Alex's face was red, and his hands trembled.

Sylvia gazed at him, listening. Once he had finished, he clasped his hands together, and breathed into them, covering his face.

"Alex."

"I was stupid for saying all of that. Such an _idiot,_ I knew it…"

" _Alex_."

"I'll see you later…"

Sylvia rolled her eyes, grabbing his hand. She pulled him back with impressive strength and he nearly collided with her when he lost his balance. Alex stared at her, lips parted, terrified by what she might say.

"I don't know what it is with you, or Ed, or Oswald trying to walk away from me when we're not done talking, but I'll have you know that it's a really strong pet peeve, so don't do that," Sylvia stated firmly.

Her voice softened as she patted his arm.

"Thank you for being so open and honest with me." Sylvia said gratefully, smiling. "That's the first time I've ever heard that much sincerity come out of you."

"Well, it's true—and I'm being honest!"

"I know you are."

"So…so…?"

"You know, it's okay if you feel like an idiot around me. Half the time you admit you _are_ an idiot. You're pretty dumb when it comes to that disease you got."

"What disease?"

"Foot-in-mouth disease."

"Ah."

"And it's pretty bad." Sylvia pointed out. "But you're not stupid for being honest, you know."

"I'm sorry I wasn't honest before. Had I talked about it before, you'd probably be with me instead of—"

"Honestly, that's probably true. But you can't fully live in the present if you're still moping about in the past."

"Wise words."

"I'm a wise woman," Sylvia said sheepishly.

"I've gathered that," Alex conceded with a soft laugh. He scratched his eyebrow, asking, "So, what do you wanna do about the chick?"

"Who, Isabella?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know. This is Gotham. People will assume she got mugged and thrown over the bridge."

"All of that yelling and stuff…" Alex muttered, rubbing his head. "She had a set of lungs. If anyone heard any of that, they might be able to point us out. That homeless guy, for one…"

"He was blind."

"But he could hear though."

"Yeah."

"And he heard names."

"Also, 'yeah'."

Alex's eyes widened and then he grinned proudly: "Is that why you used an alias?"

"Well, if Isabella lived, she would have referred to me by the alias I gave her. Any future conversation would leave _my_ name out of it."

"Yeah, but the blind man heard her yelling it at the top of her lungs."

"Well, if anyone goes to investigate, they'll be getting a false name. A name that's not _mine_. That's all I care about," Sylvia mused as she shrugged carelessly.

"Is 'Tabitha' someone you know or just a name you like?" Alex asked curiously.

Sylvia glanced at him, saying coolly, "Someone I know, and someone I absolutely despise."

"Nice. Someone you despise more than me?"

" _Very_."

"What's your beef with her?"

"If you're around long enough, you'll gather that pretty quick too."

"What do you mean?"

Sylvia looked at the mansion for a brief second before turning her attention back to Alex, who waited for her explanation. It was her turn to appear uncomfortable as she crossed her arms, protecting herself against the wind chill of the coming cold front as well as the vulnerability she displayed towards him.

"You and I haven't seen eye-to-eye on several occasions, that's true, okay? And, frankly, having you in my life is just really weird," Sylvia said softly. "Having my first love anywhere near Oswald is _really_ awkward to me, and just so you know, there is _no_ chance—not one in a million, not one in a billion, like there is _none_ —that you and I will ever be romantically involved. Just so you're aware."

Alex nodded: "Got it. A little disappointing, but, yeah, I'm aware."

"That said," Sylvia said carefully. "You saved my life today. If it weren't for you, I admit, my body might have been under that bridge, mangled and wrangled up instead of Isabella's. For that, you have my gratitude, and I'm in your debt."

"I know a way you can pay that back."

"I know too."

"So?"

Sylvia sighed: "You have to understand the kind of difficult position I'm in, okay? You can work for me at my bar if you like until I need a marksman—honestly, Victor tends to fill that role pretty well—but if he's not available, the job will be yours."

"Oh, good to know!"

"Okay, but listen. I have to be very clear. Oswald will _not_ like it, and he certainly has his reservations about you."

"I can understand that."

"You have to be _professional_. You hear me? No taking jabs at him. Don't do anything to set him off, and please, for god sake, do _not_ call him 'Pengy'."

"Why, is that what _you_ call him?"

Sylvia stared at him, saying, " _Professional,_ remember? You're working for me. Not being my friend. That question alone is unprofessional."

"You're the last person I thought who would try to reinforce the whole 'civility' and 'professionalism' concept."

"Well, if you'd like to stay alive and not maimed, you'd be wise to incorporate it into your work life, starting immediately."

Alex nodded, and he saluted her: "You have my word. I'll be professional, starting now."

"Fantastic." Sylvia returned flatly.

He moved to the other side of the car, sitting in the driver's seat. Sylvia met him on that side; he rolled down the window, peering up at her.

"Are you gonna tell him what happened on the bridge?" he asked.

"I'll have to. He's kind of expecting a report."

"Are you gonna tell him about what I did?"

"That'll be part of it, yes."

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"Hard to say," Sylvia returned truthfully. "Unlike you, Oswald is more complicated."

"So, you're saying I'm simple?"

"I'd say you are."

"I don't know if I should be flattered or offended."

"Far be it of me to tell you how to feel."

"Technically speaking, you could."

"As your boss, I can tell you what to _do_. I'll do that now. Get out of here." Sylvia said, gesturing to the road.

"Sure thing, Lark." Alex said, nodding dutifully towards her. "First thing of business, I'll be looking into that 'Jill' woman."

"Who?"

"The woman you interrogated in your office."

"Ah."

"Yeah, I think there was something fishy about her. Went too quietly in my opinion."

"Well, you do what you gotta do. If you think she's doing something suspicious, sniff it out."

"Like a bloodhound."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Happy hunting—now, really, hit the road."

"Sounds good. Have a good night, Boss."

"Good night."

He saluted her again and drove away.

Sylvia watched him leave and headed into the mansion.


	51. FUBAR

Chapter Fifty-One: FUBAR

 **Author's Note:** Thank you for your reviews, my lovelies. I appreciate them, and love hearing what you think! Here's another chapter!

* * *

When Sylvia came home, steadily walking through the halls to the living room, she wasn't surprised to see Oswald standing at the fire place, waiting for her to come home. He hadn't changed out of his more extravagant suits just yet. One hand on the mantle, the other holding a half-glass of alcohol from which he sipped occasionally as he stared into the slow dwindling excuse for a fire.

Hearing the familiar footsteps of another, Oswald glanced over his shoulder, his eyes only widening when he saw her disheveled appearance. He was expecting her to come home late. Not for her to come home with her hair in a tangled, dirty mess and her clothes covered in grime as though she'd been in a struggle.

Immediately, his drink was forgotten as he quickly stepped towards her, his face and tone primed for a torrent of worry: "Oh my _god_ , are you alright!"

"Fine," Sylvia said, smiling widely when Oswald embraced her, relieved. "Why?"

"Well, it's just that you look like you're in a state of disrepair."

"Oh? That must be the politest way of telling someone they look like a piece of crap."

Oswald shrugged; a look of indifference was quickly replaced with an apologetic half-smile. She pulled off her coat, which Oswald took from her insistently, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. He folded it and laid it over the back of the couch, watching her as she took a seat, taking off her shoes.

"What happened?" Oswald asked readily.

Sylvia let out a cynical chortle in addition to her response: "Well, it went just as you thought it would."

"So, she's finally out of the picture?"

"Yes," Sylvia returned moodily. "But not in the way that _I_ would have wanted."

Oswald seemed to ignore her frigid demeanor and emphasized his question as a statement, "So that means you took care of her."

Sylvia frowned as Oswald sat beside her. He looked taken aback to see her response to his question, as though she'd truly wanted to help Isabella, not end her pathetic excuse for an existence. However, he tried to be comforting, gently patting her wrist.

"You did what—"

"Don't tell me I did what was necessary," Sylvia interrupted curtly, standing up.

Oswald's eyes followed her. He didn't dare meet her height.

"But you did do what was necessary."

"Because _you_ asked me to!"

Oswald stared at her, disarmed by her tone.

It sounded as though she was blaming him. And how could she not? He'd given her an order to take care of this Isabella situation; he'd had known that Sylvia would carry out his wishes to the last detail, even if she didn't feel it was the best thing to do. Still, Oswald was certain they'd been on the same page: Getting Isabella out of Ed's life was in their mutual friend's best interest…

"I tried giving her a way out," Sylvia said, disgruntled.

Oswald crossed his arms: "And how did that work out?"

"How do you think?" She gestured to her entire appearance. "She declined, and _then_ she tried to kill me."

His aloof façade dropped, and was replaced by concern once more. He began to ask her more questions, but she took the liberty to narrate the details without prompting.

"She tried to throw me over the Stone Creek bridge. She nearly succeeded, if it hadn't been for…Well, it doesn't really matter right now. The point is this: Isabella's been run over by an array of vehicles, so, naturally, she's dead." Sylvia stated. She sat back down, rubbing her face in dread: "And Ed is going to be devastated once he finds out."

 _Ah_. Oswald pieced it together: the reason for her anger.

She wasn't mad about killing Isabella per se. She was angry at herself for taking Isabella out of Ed's life in the most egregious way possible, and having to hide all of this from him. Guilt was eating away at her, evident by the low groan she emitted.

Oswald promised, "Ed won't find out."

"Are you serious? Isabella was thrown off a bridge in the middle of the night, same night as she was supposed to be on her way to some mediocre librarian conference. She drops into a literal stampede of traffic, and you think Ed won't find out?"

Oswald scoffed, "I didn't mean he won't find out about the accident. I meant he won't find out that you did it."

"He's not an idiot."

"I didn't say he was."

"He'll figure it out," Sylvia declared. "And hiding all of this from him…It's not the best idea."

"You want to tell him?" Oswald asked reluctantly, standing up.

" _Yes_." Sylvia insisted through her cupped hands as she covered her face tiredly. "I want to tell him. Not that I can, or _would,_ despite the fact that I disagree. I promised you that I wouldn't say anything to him..."

"And you'll _keep_ that promise."

Sylvia lowered her hands from her face, peering up at him from her place on the couch. She slowly stood, the distance between them so small. As Oswald surveyed her glare and otherwise defensive body language, he became wary of her temper. Sylvia was smaller, shorter, but it made him no less aware of his own physical disadvantage in comparison to her strength and agility.

"If I didn't know any better," Sylvia uttered dangerously, "that sounded like a threat."

"Look…Honey…" Oswald began steadily, trying to ease the tension between them. "I'm only…I didn't mean for it to come out that way. I'm only trying—"

"I know what you're trying to do." Sylvia responded, her icy glare softening to an understanding reflection of himself. "You're trying to protect Ed."

"Yes!" He sighed in relief.

 _Thank goodness she understood—that would've been an awful misunderstanding!_

"But you're going about it the wrong way."

Oswald blinked a few times before he processed her complaint. "I'm not sure what you're—"

"Trust me," Sylvia said unhappily. "We should've gone to Ed, told him what Isabella was. It would've broken his heart, and hell, he might not have believed us but he'd have confronted Isabella in his own time and in his own way."

" _Or not_." Oswald offered callously.

She cocked her head to the side, skeptical.

"He's blinded to her, Sylvia," Oswald said coldly. "He's blind to her manipulation. Her entire farce. The bitch put up a front and he's been falling for it ever since she came to Gotham. If we hadn't intervened, he'd fawn over her until she stabbed him in the back."

"I doubt it. Ed might've fallen for Isabella because she looks like Kristen but that woman wasn't anything like her. Eventually, he'd have come around."

"If you believe that, you have more faith in his emotional aptitude than I do."

"Well, maybe you _should_ start having a bit more faith in him," Sylvia rounded darkly. She gestured to him, adding, "If you love him, you should be happy if _he's_ happy. Even if he isn't happy with _you_."

Oswald glared: "Ed _wasn't_ happy with her."

"Seemed to me like he was."

"That's not what I meant. I meant in the long run. She'd have ended up just like the other one."

"I know what you meant. But she obviously made him happy. We can't negate that just to make your ego feel a little better about doing all of this," Sylvia reminded. "Ed's happy being around you, but he was also happy being around _her_. Whatever her ulterior motives were, you still have to take into account the feelings Ed has for _her_. Even if what he sees is not there, never has been, and never would have been."

"You make me sound like I'm doing all of this for me."

"Aren't you?"

Oswald glared at her again. He started shaking like a leaf. A sure sign that she was starting to really piss him off.

"You're doing this because you don't want to lose Ed," Sylvia said with a softer tone, hoping to calm him down before he let out a temper tantrum. "I understand the need to protect someone, probably better than anyone else. But once he figures out that you killed Isabella, he'll turn on you so fast you won't see it coming. If we don't tell him now and he finds out for himself, you'll lose him, and you'll _never_ get him back."

"Technically speaking, _you_ killed Isabella."

Sylvia's mouth parted open in deep offense.

"Because she tried to kill me first and because you asked me to!" Sylvia reminded angrily. She poked him hard in the shoulder a couple times, adding, "And how _dare_ you turn this on me! _You_ gave the order. _Not_ me."

"How did she get the upper hand anyway?" Oswald questioned arbitrarily.

"She caught me off guard." Sylvia returned defensively, gesturing to him. "It can happen to _anyone_."

"She's a librarian."

"Doesn't matter. She caught me off guard!"

"But she's a _librarian_!"

"I'm aware! I'm aware!" Sylvia snapped indignantly, crossing her arms as Oswald rolled his eyes and stared unhappily into the void of the fireplace. "I know she's just a librarian. That's why when she started yelling at me and started throwing me over the wall, I was a bit disarmed by it! I was expecting some resistance, a yelling match, even. I wasn't prepared to throw hands!"

"Oh, please…"

"Don't 'oh please' me! She would have nearly thrown me off the fucking bridge if it had not been for…"

At her hesitation, Oswald turned around to look at her: "If it hadn't been for whom?"

"Well…" Sylvia mumbled, twisting uncomfortably on her feet.

"What?"

Sylvia shrugged, shaking her head.

"This is the second time that you have mentioned this anonymous savior," Oswald declared carefully. "Every time you've mentioned them, you hesitate in telling me their name. Who is it?"

"It doesn't matter…"

"You're going to criticize me about keeping things quiet but then turn around and not tell me who you've been with all night? _Now_ , who's being the secretive one?"

" _This is not the same thing, and you fucking know it_!"

"Who is it?" Oswald commanded impatiently.

"I said it doesn't matter!"

"Tell me who it is!"

"Fine! You might not like it—"

"—I don't care—"

"It was Alex!" Sylvia finally shouted.

"WHAT!"

"I said you wouldn't like it."

"HIM?"

"Yes. Alex saved my life—"

"— _He_ saved your life—?!"

"He just happened to be there at the right moment—"

Oswald gesticulated angrily, "Why was he there _at all_!"

"I don't—Look, he followed me from my club!" Sylvia said loudly.

"Why was he following you?"

"Fuck if I know! He said he was worried—"

"— _You can take care of yourself_!" Oswald recoiled irately.

"I—"

"E _veryone_ knows that!"

" **Regardless** , in hindsight, it was a good thing he was there because Isabella might've killed me if he hadn't come when he did," Sylvia retorted.

Oswald rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. He breathed quickly, trying to maintain some type of patience. If they continued to shout like this, it wouldn't be too much longer before Gabe or Olga came out from their rooms to inquire. Luckily, Ed was still hung up at his own apartment, choosing to sleep there for the night rather than coming back to the mansion after his dalliance.

Oswald closed his eyes, clenching his hands into fists and he forced himself to calm down. Meanwhile, Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek, debating if she should even try to tell him the other half of the news. But since she was an honest woman who held no truths from her beloved, she sought to clear the air of any misgivings.

"There's something else," She began.

"What else?"

"Well, by saving my life, I owed him a debt."

Oswald looked up at the ceiling, muttering, "Please don't tell me what I think you're going to tell me."

"—I offered him a job."

Oswald said sarcastically, "Of _course_ , you did."

"It's the least I could do."

"The least you could do? The least you could do! The least you could do was tell him to fuck off."

" _Oswald_!" Sylvia scolded, earning a reproachful look from him. "I know you don't like Alex, but he saved my life. If it hadn't been for him, I might not have come back at all! Telling him to fuck off isn't exactly returning the favor."

"It would be for the best."

"For whom? For him or for _you_?"

"He was there when you killed Isabella…"

"I mean, technically, we did it together."

Oswald frowned: "That's not my point."

"I know, but I thought it was worth pointing out since you had to put it out in the open that it was I who ' _technically'_ killed Isabella. Not you. Even though it was you, who gave the order."

"You didn't have to follow that order."

"Of course, I did. You're still technically my boss," Sylvia reminded gruffly.

"I'm just saying that maybe you shouldn't have."

"Excuse me!"

"Well, observing from where I'm standing, you're obviously having an issue with my judgement. My plan to protect Ed, to keep him happy…" Oswald explained, waving his hand to her.

"Your plan was and _is_ dishonest!" Sylvia reminded furiously, glaring at him. "Of course, I was against the idea! But you're technically still my boss, and—and…It's just really hard for me to say 'no' to you, okay? But, _but_ there's no point in anyone pointing fingers because it doesn't matter anymore. We're both in too deep now, _anyway_."

"Speaking of no turning back—"

"I didn't say those words."

"It's implied." Oswald remarked sternly. He shook his head, rolling his eyes, as he hissed, " _So_ argumentative."

Indignant to his mumbled aggression, Sylvia said pettily, "You're the one who picked an argument with _me_. You should know better, considering the fucking mess you and I are in right now."

"Not just us, Pigeon."

"What do you mean?"

"Your ex is involved now… _unnecessarily_ , but he's involved either way."

"'Unnecessarily'? If it wasn't for him—"

"I _know_." Oswald growled, rubbing his eyes. "Either way, he's complicit."

"So what do you want to do with _him_?" Sylvia questioned cynically.

"You already know."

" _No_."

Oswald glanced at her, surprised: "'No'?"

"We're not killing him."

"I didn't say that."

"But it was _implied_."

Oswald glared at her for twisting his own words: "He has to leave Gotham."

"Absolutely not. He's _staying_ in Gotham."

" _What?_ "

"There's no reason for him to relocate."

"No reason?!"

"He has no ties to Isabella."

"Except that he's an accomplice to murder." Oswald voiced loudly.

"He doesn't care about her! So, he's not going to be snooping around, trying to get revenge on us. And like you said—he's an accomplice. Going to the GCPD would only bring him heat. He's dumb, but he's not going to jeopardize his own welfare just to turn us in, especially when it'll be his word versus ours." Sylvia reminded vehemently. "He shot her in the arm, and threw her over the bridge after what she tried to do to me. And, by the way, he was more than willing. I didn't even have to talk him into it."

"I wonder why he was so willing." Oswald snipped.

That passive-aggression was just flying out of him, like wasps out of a hornet's nest. And Sylvia would have lied if she said it didn't sting a little.

"Ozzie, your jealousy is understood," Sylvia reasoned patiently, "but if you trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Regardless of your feelings about Alex, you must at least consider this: if you want to keep track of him and make sure he doesn't go to the police or anything, making him stay in Gotham and keeping him close is the only way to do that."

Oswald bit the inside of his cheek in pressing thought as he resigned with the greatest reluctance: "Unfortunately, you make a fair point."

"Noted." Sylvia agreed. "Telling him to fuck off wouldn't be in our favor, now, would it?"

Oswald muttered, "No, it wouldn't."

"He won't tell Ed if that's what you're worried about."

"The fact that he's involved in any of this isn't very comforting either."

"Well, that's the price you pay when your jealousy goes unchecked." Sylvia said off-handedly, earning a well-deserved glare in her direction.

"That isn't fair. You were feeling the _same_ way about Isabella."

"I was. But I didn't want to hide any of this from Ed, because Ed deserves the truth. Isabella deserved to die because of how she used him, but if I could have kept her death out of the fucking Gotham Gazette, I would have. And trust me: this kind of 'accident' is gonna make the front page. The whole thing caused a five-car pile-up."

"It could have been preventable."

"It could have? I _tried_ , Oswald. I gave her the choice; she refused. _Adamantly_ , by the way. This whole situation is…is messy. It's beyond messy…it's…. It's _FUBAR_."

He hadn't been prepared for her spontaneous realization. It involuntarily made him chuckle.

"What?"

"It's a military thing." Sylvia explained. "F-U-B-A-R. Stands for 'Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition'."

She carelessly threw her hand towards the fireplace, adding, "It's something Jim used a great deal when he just came out of the Army. Doesn't use it as often since coming to Gotham, mainly because Gotham is as FUBAR as a city can get."

Oswald exhaled deeply, exhausted by the argument. They both sat on the couch, sighing together. Sylvia simply stared at the ceiling while Oswald nervously fidgeted with his hands.

He hated it when she was angry with him. He felt like he was walking on egg shells around her when she was furious. Usually, he could bypass these types of situations, sailing through the storm somehow with his intellect and charisma as he always did with any situation in which he was forcibly dropped. However, Sylvia was an unpredictable type. He was accustomed to her temper, but normally, he was not on the receiving end.

And she was honest. Brutally honest, but honest. A trait she no doubt mirrored with her brother. And having to lie to her best friend (which was ironically his own best friend) was a path she hardly preferred to partake. And yet, she did it for him.

Luckily, her FUBAR comment had allowed them to laugh at the irony of the situation, despite how humorless it really was.

"I'm going to bed." Sylvia mumbled. "I'm tired."

Oswald nodded, not knowing what to say or how to say it. He watched her go upstairs, and heard the door close.


	52. Love Is Complicated

Chapter Fifty-Two: Love Is Complicated

* * *

Oswald stayed up for an hour after Sylvia had gone upstairs, contemplating their argument. Sylvia might've been right, but seeing Ed heartbroken after finding out that Isabella was not who she claimed to be, using him for her own selfish reasons…That was something Ed couldn't bounce back from. The accidental death of a loved one—easier to fully process. Even if the end result was murder.

"I'm doing what's best for him," Oswald spoke his thoughts aloud. "What's best for all of us."

He said the words out loud. He felt that he was in the right.

Still…Being at odds with his own wife was more stressful than covering up a murder. Sylvia was a loyal woman; he didn't think she'd break under such stress, but it wasn't doing him any favors being in a feud with her.

Oswald headed upstairs to the bedroom, changing into pajamas. He thought of ways to make it up to her. As he pulled down the covers, sliding under them and into bed with her, one thought did occur to him. Particularly when he observed her lavender night slip, how well it lightly conformed to her body; the soft pastel color over the contrast dark midnight blue of her underwear. Her panty lines…

What was he really thinking of doing?

He'd tried it once before and she had a gun to his head before he knew what was happening! What Sylvia wanted was maybe an apology for having her commit this arguably foul crime (although it seemed like a public service to _him_ ). Oswald couldn't apologize for something he felt was necessary to be done. He was, however, remorseful for making her feel guilty when all she really did was what he wanted her to do in the first place.

It wasn't often that they argued, but when they did, it always left an uncomfortable looming feeling of an impending doom. His insecurities would dredge up the most unpleasant feelings possible, making him fear the worst: Would she leave him? Would she suddenly not love him anymore?

Even though every argument resolved itself, if not due to his own remorse or need to patch up the wound, it was due to her feeling nearly the same way.

A part of the argument replayed in his mind.

It was almost flattering…She had a hard time telling him 'no'. Whether it meant that she was sworn to carry out his bidding as he was her boss, or because his happiness was the motivation behind the plethora of her ambitions wasn't clear to him.

How far would she go to make sure he was happy? What lengths would she strive to reach in order to please him? Was there anything she wouldn't do to protect his life or his heart? Obviously, murder wasn't the boundary. So, what was it? Was there even a boundary left to cross, if she would kill to help make his wishes come true?

This was an impeccable feat of Sylvia's that made her most useful to him, but also so loyal. And yet another reason why Oswald felt drawn to her; her unconditional love mirroring his own mother's. By those standards, there was no replacing her.

Oswald depended on her, needed her more than she needed him…Jim had said that once before. Was he right?

He lied on his side, facing her back. She, too, was on her side, but not facing his direction.

Was she awake?

Was she asleep?

Oswald sucked and nibbled on his bottom lip; his eyebrows crinkled together as he was uncertain as to where to start. He'd follow the motions, he decided. Just start slow.

Oswald snuggled closer to her, pressing his chest against the thin material of her night slip covering her back. He breathed her in; the rose petal scent of the lotion she applied every night at bedtime made his stomach turn pleasurably in an unexpected way. He moved her hair over her shoulder so he could nuzzle her neck, kissing her nape while he lightly traced the hem of her night slip across her outer thighs.

He heard her exhale softly, sighing in a dream.

"So beautiful," Oswald whispered.

His fingers lifted the hem to her stomach so he could caress the exposed skin of her inner thighs. Lightly coaxing them to separate just a little. Oswald smiled to himself as he stroked her clit over her underwear. Sylvia let out a quiet 'mm', attempting to move; he allowed her to shift her position, smiling when she lied on her back.

He was about to slip his hand inside her panties, but he was stopped. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist. When he met her eyes, they were open, peering back at him, although sleepily.

"What are you doing?" She asked quietly.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. That's why I asked."

"I…"

Sylvia smiled at him knowingly. She let go of his hand, lowering her own to her panties and slipped them off pointedly. Oswald smiled at her encouraging gesture to continue. So unpredictable.

He leaned forward to kiss her. Sylvia met him halfway, lifting her arm around his shoulders to bring him closer while he rubbed her clit. She moaned in his mouth, spreading her legs a little more so he had better access. Oswald dipped his fingers inside her sex; her wet warmth greeting him. Their kissing became more passionate as he finger-fucked her.

Her breaths became quick and shallow. Her back arched.

"Wait, wait…" Sylvia begged.

Oswald looked at her curiously.

"I want you."

"What?"

"I want to come with you inside me." Sylvia managed breathlessly.

To get her point across, she lowered her hand to his pants, stroking her hand up and down his stiff cock clothed behind them. It made him involuntarily moan.

"Please…" Sylvia whispered.

How could he say no to her…?

Oswald kissed her cheek wistfully, leaving her only long enough to take off his pants. Sylvia grinned when he towered over her, getting between her legs.

"What are you smirking at?" Oswald asked distractedly.

"How much more attracted are you to me, knowing I killed Isabella for you?" She asked.

Oswald smiled guiltily. She had no idea.

Sylvia sat up and grabbed his cock, holding him firmly in her palm.

 _Okay_ , he thought quickly. _Maybe she has_ _ **some**_ _idea._

She took his cock and rubbed the head of it against her sex, sliding the tip over her clit. Her eyes never left his, even as she moved him closer, putting him inside of her. Oswald groaned, watching her do this. Her excitement made his cock slick, and he moved in and out of her easily. Her eager moans with the anticipation of the oncoming release goaded him on as he fucked her harder.

Oswald bared his weight on her, keeping her trapped underneath him. She made a point to try and 'resist'; he wrapped his hand around her throat, tightening his fingers against her carotids; Sylvia let out an irresistible snicker.

The pressure was building inside her core, the quaking need to let go, to allow her orgasm to fully take control. When she allowed it to, her body shivered and her muscles twitched, clinging to every thrust. Oswald swallowed her moans, kissing her deeply. He came after she did.

Sylvia smiled as Oswald remained on her. Several minutes passed during which they cuddled; he rested his head on her shoulder, kissing it briefly. She smiled sweetly at him.

"Sylvia…"

"Yes, Sweetheart?"

Oswald smiled at her term of endearment. She sounded a lot more lenient, not as brisk as she'd been downstairs. This was a comforting notion.

"I'm only doing all of this to protect Ed."

"I'm aware of that," Sylvia returned good-naturedly. "But as I said before, you went about it in the wrong way."

"In what other way could I have done it? I don't know why we're talking about it. Besides, it's a little too late at this point."

"Not really."

"Meaning?"

Sylvia sat up, peering down at him: "We tell him what happened."

Oswald sighed in exasperation.

"The whole thing about Aubrey James, the thing at the bridge…"

"No, Sylvia."

She shook her head, crossing her arms: "Oswald, Ed will not understand why you've done what you've done when he finds out for himself what happened. And I'm not talking about just disingenuous bitterness. He killed Dougherty because he abused Kristen Kringle—what do you think will happen to the people who went out of their way to kill Kringle's doppelganger?"

"He'll understand with time."

"Time doesn't heal all wounds."

"It can."

"It doesn't." Sylvia argued.

"Proof?"

"Do you feel any better about how your mother died?"

Oswald frowned: "That's low. Even for you."

"No. It's 'proof'. Time hasn't healed the wound Tabitha left any more than not killing her has. Frankly, I'm surprised you have kept Tabitha alive as long as you have—considering the only reason you were keeping her alive was because of Butch, who, by the way, turned on you the first chance he got."

"Thank you for that summation. I didn't realize I needed reminding."

"Your sarcasm is deafening."

"I have my reasons for not getting rid of Tabitha. Just as I have my reasons for doing what I'm doing to protect Ed."

"You're covering up a murder to keep him from guessing you killed Isabella. _That's_ your reason for doing what you're doing." Sylvia stated coolly. "Why are we still arguing about this?"

"Because you keep bringing it up."

"You brought it up."

"I just have to…" Oswald began.

"You just have to what?"

"I feel like I have to defend myself."

"You don't have to."

"But I feel like I _need_ to."

"You're doing all of it in the name of love," Sylvia stated. "That's your reasoning."

"And you doubt my judgement."

"Yes."

Oswald stared at her, sitting up: "You do?"

"Well, I mean…Kind of, yes." Sylvia returned. "Look…." She turned to him completely, sitting on her knees. "I know what it's like to have your judgement questioned. I had my turn because of Demetri and my choice to keep him around—I guess it's your turn…? I know you mean well. I know you think you're doing what you need to do in order to keep Ed happy, but really, you're only doing this so you can make Ed turn to you in the face of grief. So, he'd have a shoulder to cry on, and that, Oswald, isn't love. That's selfish."

Oswald's frown deepened: "So, you think I'm being selfish."

"Yes."

"That I'm doing all of this for Ed _for_ me."

"Yes."

"So, _now_ you're being brutally honest?"

"I haven't told Ed the truth because of _you_ , Oswald. If you're going to throw stones at me, you best be ready to get some thrown right back." Sylvia warned.

"If you don't trust my judgement, why are you doing _anything_ I say?" He snapped.

"Because I _love_ you!"

"That makes no sense."

"I know!" Sylvia snapped. "I know it doesn't. But I can't help it. I told you a _long_ time ago—years, in fact—that all I want to do is to help you meet your ambitions. I'm your wife, I want to see you happy. I want to see you succeed. And even though what you're doing is so far from practical, I can't say 'no'. I don't know why! I just want to see you happy, because you're the one I love! If that's wrong, then throw me to the wolves because I don't know what's right!"

Oswald smiled in spite of the volume of their raised voices.

"Why are you smiling?" Sylvia demanded.

"What you just said," Oswald said lightly. "That's exactly what I feel for Ed."

"It's not the same thing."

"Why isn't it?"

"I kept tabs on Isabella to put your mind at ease. I tried to push her out of town so you didn't have to do the dirty work. I ended up killing her because it was either her or me, and I'd gone too far to be killed off by some librarian, Kringle doppelganger employed by someone as half-baked of a mayor as Aubrey James.

"You're doing it for yourself, thinking you're doing it for Ed's best interest, but it's only to protect yours. You were jealous of Isabella. You didn't want to share him with her. Your jealousy is getting the best of you."

"That's not true," Oswald retorted. "I'm capable of sharing him. You, Ed, and me were in the same room the other night."

"You're okay with sharing him with _me_ , because you know that I don't have romantic feelings for him. I have platonic feelings for him, with a sexual component. Only. It's the same ballpark with everyone else we work with.

"It's why it's easy for me to see you hang out with Barbara Kean, because I know that not only are there no romantic feelings between you, but neither of you are sexually interested in each other either. It's why you can watch me kiss Barbara to get under Tabitha's skin, because Barbara and I don't share romantic feelings for each other. It's why you don't care if Victor and me hang out together because you know we are only _friends._ Put the 'L' word in the mix, and everything becomes a fucking mess. Just like the love triangle between Mario, Lee, and my brother—just as it is with this Bermuda Triangle between you, Ed, and Isabella."

"It's not a triangle anymore—she's dead."

"Well, Ed doesn't know that!"

Oswald growled in frustration, throwing his hands in the air: "Ugh! There is no talking to you when you're like this! How dare you talk to me about love triangles—As if you don't know when you're in one."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You hired your own ex-boyfriend to work with you at your club."

"So?"

"You're telling me that's not a love triangle?"

"I don't love him."

"But he still loves you," Oswald rounded, pointing at her.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, getting out of bed.

"Again. If you trust me, you have nothing to worry about."

"I trust you. It's him that I don't trust."

"Well, that's something you'll just have to get used to."

"Not if I kill him first."

"Don't even joke about that!"

"Oh, trust me, Pet. It wasn't a joke."

"He hasn't done anything to you!" Sylvia reminded furiously. "He's just trying to find work."

"He can't stay in the South?"

"There's nothing in the South."

"Falcone—"

"—Falcone doesn't order hits anymore. He's been on vacation, in retirement. Who's he gonna kill after all this time?" Sylvia questioned. "Alex is just a friend, Oz. We had a talk, an understanding. He isn't going to get into my pants, and I'm certainly not trying to get into his. Been there, done that, not gonna do it again."

"And if he turns out to be another Demetri?"

"He won't."

"How do you know for sure?"

"Alex and I were alone multiple times when I went to help Falcone plan Mario's engagement party. He had multiple opportunities to take my life, but he didn't. Instead, he spent all of them trying to be my friend."

"That's exactly what Demetri did before he—"

"Don't you dare!" Sylvia threatened. "Alex is _nothing_ like Demetri, and you know it!"

"I don't know a thing about him!"

"He loves me enough to agree to keep the peace between you two, and he trusts me enough to help him get a job when he's washed up down South. And I trust him too."

Oswald stared at her: "You trust him now? When did that happen?"

"When he literally saved my life and helped me carry out the plan of my jealous husband, that's when."

"Oh, for god's sake…" Oswald muttered resentfully.

"And for that reason, _you_ should trust him too. It's not like he _had_ to save my life. He could've just let me die. Instead, he saved _your_ wife from Isabella's fate. Call it 'serendipity', a fool's luck, I don't know. For that, you should be grateful to _him_."

"I'm not thanking him if that's what you're implying I should do."

"I didn't imply anything."

"It sounded like it."

Sylvia sighed deeply, trying to collect her patience. Aside from the sweet lovemaking, they'd only argued since she had come home. Oswald quietly collected himself before Sylvia sat in bed.

"I will help you cover up Isabella's murder because I believe, on the whole, that you're trying to do this out of love—even if you went about it erroneously, and also because I'm responsible. But just know that I am _not_ happily doing this for you. I'm doing it because I love you, and want to see you happy."

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. I just want you to see the difficulty of the position I'm in."

He nodded in understanding.

Sylvia laid down. Oswald did too.

He turned on his side, fretfully wondering how he could make this situation better, but not knowing at the same time. The idea of sleep coming too easily was far from being an actuality until he felt Sylvia's arm slip around his chest and pull him closer to her. He caressed her hand with his, holding it to his heart.

"You really _are_ a man easily manipulated by your own emotions," Sylvia uttered knowingly. Her lips pressed against his ear where she licked his earlobe, and Oswald felt a shiver run down his spine. "It's one of the most infuriating things about you, but it's also one of the many reasons why I love you."

A fuzzy feeling embraced his body, covering him in warmth in light of the bittersweet compliment. She said it with a smile, and that made all the difference.

"Good night, Sweetheart." Sylvia said softly.

It was quiet for a few minutes, then…

"I'm sorry we argued." Oswald whispered.

"Couples fight…"

"Are we okay?"

"Yeah." Sylvia murmured. She kissed his shoulder, adding, "We're okay."

"Good. I'm glad…Are you still my girl?"

"Always." She mewed. "I'd do anything for you. You can count on me. Even if you can't count on anyone else…even yourself."

Oswald smiled at her words. She really knew how to butter him up, to soothe painful wounds, to comfort him in order for him to fall asleep. There was a certain protective edge to her tone that wrapped his subconscious in a warm blanket, one that lured him into a true sense of security. He could lower his guard around her, lower his defenses, and know that he could be completely vulnerable.

He could only admit to himself that he couldn't be this vulnerable with his parents, both of whom never really saw the full aspect of his villainous deeds, the heinous extents he'd gone to pursue his desires and goals.

Oswald turned in her arms, meeting her eyes. Sleepily, she looked at him.

He caressed her face in his palms, kissing her slow and gently.

"You're everything to me," Oswald whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

"Mm-hmm…" She hummed, nodding her head.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

"Shhh…"

She lightly combed her hand through his feather-soft hair, her sleepy smile coaxing him to cuddle to her. He nestled inside her embrace as she lied on her back; he slept on his side, clinging to her as he fell asleep.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : It just occurred to me that this might be one of the first chapters I've ever written in which Oswald and Sylvia had the classic marital 'Friday Night fight'. This chapter was one of the hardest I've had to write without there being any violence, nitty gritty gore, or a major character death. Admittedly, this is not my most favorite part of Gotham either, so maybe that's why. Anyway, things are getting more intense. Buckle up, kids!

 **A/N/2** : Victor and Alex meet (officially) in the next chapter, so this should be fun XD

 **A/N/3** : Another little sneak peek to look forward to is, yes. At some point in time, Sylvia will be infected with the Tetch Virus. What dark part or secret will it bring out of her, I wonder? Hmmm. Maybe you all already know, hmmmm? Trust me. This shit is going to be awesome! I can't wait!


	53. A Time To Step Down

Chapter Fifty-Three: A Time To Step Down

* * *

Friday Night was packed at _Lean on Vee's_ , as it was every Friday. Sylvia performed her number—a slow dancing song with a violinist playing right behind her. When the song ended, she told her audience to have a wonderful night and to enjoy themselves. When she walked off the stage, she wasn't surprised to see Alex waiting for her.

He was dressed in a suit, black jacket over dark maroon long-sleeve shirt, and a matching blood-red tie to boot. Alex smiled as he 'helped' her down the stairs; she merely appeased him by taking his hand until both of her feet touched the carpet beneath them.

"Good singing, Lark."

"Alex, that wasn't just 'good'. It's 'great' singing." She corrected playfully.

"You sing great, then." Alex said, taking the critique lightly. He gazed at the audience, those both sitting at the bar, standing in its line, and those who rested on the different booths around the area. "I'm surprised Penguin isn't here."

"He's been busy."

"Thought you said he never misses these Friday night performances."

"Well, it's nice to know you can remember the subtle bits of conversation just so you can use it against him and make him look bad, weeks down the line," Sylvia stated airily with a ghost of a smirk. "I see _right_ through that, you know."

Alex smiled guiltily. The two of them stood around while the pianist, who would play next, took to the stage. Once he did, Sylvia took a pew at the bar counter; there was a different barmaid there, different than Jill at least. That jogged her memory.

"So, what did you find out about Jill?" She asked.

Alex rolled his eyes: "Haven't spoken to her yet."

"Why is that? The way you made it sound, your suspicions of her were keeping you up at night."

"Just biding my time, you know," He explained casually, twisting his hand into his hair as he combed it back as a nervous tic.

"So, it's a lower priority?"

"Of course not."

Sylvia chuckled, "If it was higher, you'd be out there, finding and interrogating Jill as we speak. Was it something you just said to impress me?"

Alex said nothing to that—it wasn't that he couldn't come up with something on the spot (as he normally did) but he hesitated. His upper lip twitched just a little, so subtle that no one else but Sylvia could detect it.

"I just thought I'd be able to prove that I'm more than a hitman," Alex offered with a passive frustration. "It's not like I'm _just_ someone who can shoot people…There's more to me than that."

"No doubt there is."

"Don't patronize me…"

"I wasn't," Sylvia reassured. She thanked the barmaid for the margarita, taking a sip. "But all you've done since being hired was do less than what Dagger and Chilly have been hired to do: watch my club. You're doing great at it, by the way."

Alex let out a disgruntled grunt, rolling his eyes to the ceiling: "Fine, then. I'll talk to Jill tonight. _And_ her mechanic boyfriend."

"Don't make it a priority simply because I asked," Sylvia reminded smoothly.

This comment made Alex look at her reproachfully. Her biting comments never left a mark; her passive aggressive responses left their sting. And while Sylvia had only hired him to pay back her debt for him saving her life, there was a certain expectation she held him to, one that Alex was finding harder and harder to fulfill as the days went by while serving her. He suspected they were the same expectations that those minions closest to her (Gabe, the Kabuki Twins, even Edward Nygma) had to go through the ringer to satisfy.

Alex was about to ask something in general before the room stood still, long enough for Dagger and Chilly to greet an icon who'd walked through the door. A familiar face with no hair, and the homicidal standards of the highest professional standard: Victor Zsasz. With him were two men that Sylvia didn't recognize. As he approached, she noticed Alex stiffen in his position.

"Good Evening, Pumpkin," Victor greeted, smirking at her.

"Hello to you too, Precious," Sylvia returned, scrunching her nose playfully at him. "Did you bring home bacon?"

"Milk, eggs, bread."

"Whole milk?"

"Two percent."

"Good enough," Sylvia chuckled.

Victor kissed her cheek, and she returned the sentiment. Meanwhile, Alex stared at their interaction with the deepest of intrigue but also one of clear jealousy. The two unfamiliar men who accompanied Victor were dressed much in the same fashion as he, with the only exception that they carried their weapons on their hip rather than in a holster vest. At their approach, Sylvia eyed them carefully.

"Don't worry, Kiddo," Victor said, reading her mind. "They're with me."

"Can't help it. New people make me nervous."

Victor smiled at that, understanding why that was. Any time someone new came into her life, it was always a pressing question of trust and empathy.

After a second, Alex cleared his throat pointedly. Sylvia gave him a look of minor annoyance, before she gestured to him.

"I don't know if you know each other, but Alex, Victor Zsasz. Victor, this is Alex."

" _Rooster_ ," Alex said loudly. He offered his hand for the other to shake.

Victor gave a quick snicker before he took Alex's hand: "Sure, I've heard about you."

Alex grinned smugly until Victor added, "You made a huge spectacle at Mario's engagement party."

"What?"

"The entire party heard you," He continued, gesturing to the room in general to emphasize the number of people.

Alex's face quickly flushed red with embarrassment. The whole scene where Alex, Jim, Oswald, and Sylvia were in a whole shouting fest, and how Jim had given him one hell of a beating for his crime of leaving Sylvia ten years ago had been heard by more than just themselves. The rumor had spread to the outlanders, and, no doubt, Falcone and his captains. Since Victor Zsasz still visited the old man from time to time, and knowing how attached Victor was to Sylvia, there was no doubt that Don Falcone would've relayed the tale to his favorite hitman.

"Gordon's got one hell of a right hook, doesn't he?" Victor teased. He leaned in, nudging Alex in the rib with his elbow.

"Yeah…"

"Got to give credit where credit is due, though. Can't really dock points against the guy for being too protective of his sister."

"Sure…"

Victor spoke coolly but there was a dangerous edge to his tone: "If it had been me, I'd have done a lot worse."

Alex raised his eyebrows at the threat, but his expression softened almost immediately. He was jealous of Victor's status with the old man; he was jealous of Gabe, of the Kabuki Twins, and how close all of them were to Sylvia; and he was jealous of Oswald Cobblepot, for all the obvious reasons. But the jealousy he felt for Victor and Sylvia's odd work-marriage relationship was one that he knew was misplaced; somewhere down the line, Victor had earned it, and that was admirable.

To pull the awkwardness out of the situation, Sylvia drank her margarita and asked for another drink. The bartender asked for what specific type, and Sylvia said smoothly, "Surprise me." When the drink appeared, it was a satisfyingly dark color of blue, and it mirrored the color of her dress too perfectly.

It was at this point that Victor sat beside her, and told his men to relax and put back a few.

"What are you all celebrating?" Sylvia asked.

"Nothing, really."

"So, with that said, I'm assuming you're here on business?"

"To relay a message."

"You're quite the answering machine."

"Aw shucks," Victor said, touching his cheek in playful embarrassment. "I didn't expect all _this_ attention."

Sylvia giggled, and asked seriously, "What's the message? Who's it from?"

"You're aware of a man named Isaac Paddock, I presume."

"Head of the Paddock family: Deaf, mute, that sort of thing."

"Correct on all accounts."

"So, he's the source. What's the message?"

Victor reached into the inner lining of his leather jacket, and pulled out a fancy-like scroll which was tied with a single red ribbon. It was half the size of a beer bottle, yellowed parchment, and petite.

"Obviously, he didn't say much. Not that I could understand him if he did 'speak' to me." Victor said humorously. To Alex, he added, "The man isn't one for many words."

"I get the joke." Alex muttered unceremoniously.

Sylvia took the scroll from Victor, who sat with his back against the counter as he surveyed the scene. Sylvia read the message and looked at the hitman with an unleveled gaze. It wasn't one that sat well with him.

"Isaac is dying."

"He is?" Victor and Alex responded simultaneously.

"He wants to have a meeting," Sylvia explained.

"About what?" Alex questioned.

"The message doesn't say, but I'm pretty sure I know what it's about."

Victor said smoothly, "Am I not privy to that type of information?"

"Of course, you are." Sylvia said sweetly. She kissed his forehead, and he beamed like a ray of sunshine. "But not here."

She gestured for both men to follow. They walked up the stairs and Sylvia closed the door to her office when the both of them were inside. Victor remained standing while Alex took a seat in front of Sylvia's desk; the latter of which took her own seat.

"Sometime ago," She explained, "Isaac told me he wasn't feeling the best. He knows he's been ill for a while now. And he has no heir to his seat at the Head of the family. In the past, he's offered for me to take his place."

"And why didn't you say 'yes'? Anyone else would have." Alex said, confused.

"No one else is the Penguin's wife." Sylvia replied patiently.

"Why would that matter?"

"Liv's position is a delicate one, Rooster." Victor explained on her behalf (Sylvia looked at him with a smile.). "If she decides to take Paddock on his proposition, she has to step down from her throne as Queen of Gotham. She'll be on the same level with Tommy Bones, the Duke, the Maronis, Anderson, and all of them."

"So, you'll be working for Penguin." Alex assumed.

"Well, in hindsight, that role won't change. But yes." Sylvia returned with a delicate smile.

"So, you won't have the same type of authority over all of them anymore?"

"Correct."

"And you'll be attending meetings as though you're one of the Families, doing business with the others."

"Also correct."

"Seems like a demotion," Alex grumbled, glancing at Victor. "Why doesn't Paddock ask someone else to take his place?"

"There's no one else he trusts," Sylvia answered. She stood, rounding the desk and glanced out the see-through door. "And there aren't a lot of people who understand him. Not like me."

"He's mute and deaf. You know some sign language." Alex gathered quickly. "That suddenly makes you a candidate?"

"I'm fluent in it," Sylvia assured. "Isaac was one of the first people who turned me onto Butch and Tabitha when they were trying to undermine me, back when Oswald was still under Hugo Strange's manipulation. He's also helped me influence the other Families when Anderson was trying to make me out to be the bad guy."

"Well, you murdered his kid," Victor reminded.

"Drake signed his death sentence when he tried to go behind my back. Twice."

"Still, though."

"I hear you, Victor. But Anderson agreed to the death sentence. I can't help it if he suddenly feels remorse for agreeing to a hit on his own blood. That's not _my_ problem," Sylvia said apathetically.

"So, if you were going to be Paddock's replacement, what'll you be managing?" Alex asked.

"Maronis got the ports and tariffs. Belichs got the reign on airports and air-shipped goods," she answered smoothly. "The Anderson Family earns a percentage from the spoils the GCPD pick up from past robberies and warehouse raids. The Drays recently made a trade with the Maroni family to supply vendors with alcohol and receive a portion of paid expenses to their own cause." (Victor looked at her with surprise). "Ronald Maroni thought the whole thing was a waste of time and a headache; he wanted the Drays' claim to the tobacco products. Different mindset than what Sal Maroni possessed.

"That said, Isaac and his people provide commerce between the mainland and Gotham's resources. Paddock and his people are vital to Gotham's economy. They're probably one of the most legal and legitimate Families, second to Falcone."

Alex grumbled, "So letting his family blend in with the rest of them ain't an option?"

"Not at all." Sylvia returned. "And that's what will happen if his people don't have a leader. They're all _sheep_. Isaac is their shepherd. He says and hears nothing, but he's as wise as they come."

"Sounds like you've got a dilemma, then."

"Sounds like it."

Victor stood with his hands clasped in front of him, not saying much of anything.

"So, what are you going to do?" asked Alex. "What are you going to tell him?"

"Isaac is like me. He wouldn't have come to me with this information if he didn't already know he wasn't going to get better. Entrusting his people and businesses to someone else—that's something no Crime Family would easily do, not a _good_ one, anyway. I'll have to say 'yes'."

"What about Penguin?" Victor asked.

Alex and Sylvia glanced at him.

"He'll understand." Sylvia said softly. "He may provide stability in Gotham, but not without the cooperation of his subordinates. He understands Isaac's role in the empire better than anyone else."

"Just out of curiosity," Alex opted quickly. "Do the _others_ talk or are they deaf too?"

"They're about half-and-half."

"Although, most of them don't talk," Victor offered. "They just sign because it's something they've done for years."

"You know what I've noticed?" Alex said curiously. "There's a lot more politics in Gotham's Underworld than there is on the surface."

Victor and Sylvia laughed, smirking at each other. But they didn't say why they found his comment amusing. Mainly, it was because he was right.


	54. Identification

Chapter Fifty-Four: Identification

* * *

Both Ed and Oswald were dressed for the morning, eating breakfast at the dining table. Ed sat down, mindfully looking over the Mayor's to-do list and making little changes a la scribbles with a number two pencil. All the same, Oswald was taking care to read the newspaper, but his mind was far from being informed about the ins-and-outs of what the Gotham Gazette considered to be important 'breaking' news.

Aside from the article that detailed the fact that one voracious doctor was murdered outside of what had been an otherwise successful engagement party for Leslie Thompkins and Mario Falcone, the rest of it was jibber jabber. Particularly since the reputation of the Gazette was to primarily feed off the negativity the city already had to offer, and to primarily boost its libelous, mudslinging hacks.

Oswald considered the way Ed frequently glanced at his watch. It wasn't every half-hour either; it was about every five minutes. And while he knew why Ed was on edge from the beginning, he certainly had to act like he knew nothing about what he already knew, right?

After Ed didn't divulge his worries freely, Oswald placed the newspaper with which he attempted to be absorbed, and asked politely, "Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Ed responded quickly. "Everything is fine."

"You've been checking your watch all morning. You're expecting—?"

"A call from Isabella," Ed answered swiftly, promptly returning his glasses above the bridge of nose. "She's at her librarian conference."

"Ah…Well, she's probably just busy."

"Most likely."

"I imagine librarian conferences can be hectic affairs."

"Not so much," Ed returned softly.

"Did she say when she would call?"

"Sometime this morning. She read her schedule to me; I figured she would've called by now."

"I'm sure she'll call soon," Oswald assured. He thought right after, ' _Not anytime soon, however_ '.

Ed contemplated the estimated time, then he only seemed to notice the absence of their third attendee.

"Where's Sylvia?"

"At a meeting," Oswald answered listlessly.

"This early in the morning?"

"It _is_ only eight. She got an early start to the day."

"Who is her meeting with?"

"Paddock."

"About?"

Oswald smiled at Ed's inquisition. Regardless of how inclined Ed chose to be too worried about Isabella and her silly conferences, it never compared to Ed's fussing over Sylvia and her to-do list as it mirrored his own.

"It appears that Paddock is a little worse for wear," Oswald informed.

"Is he ill?"

"He's getting older. Gotham aged him faster than the rest of us."

"And he needs a new heir?" asked Ed coolly. He sipped from his coffee, pleasantly surprised that the brew was still lukewarm as he'd barely touched it.

"He has no heir. Or family," Oswald sympathized.

"And he looks to Sylvia to fill that position."

"Naturally."

"Of course. Who wouldn't consider her?" Ed said understandably. "This alters the dynamics within the empire, it would appear."

"That, it does," Oswald admitted moodily. He fidgeted with a napkin; his own insecurity bubbled to the surface.

It wasn't unknown to him that he knew the people—his subjects—treasured Sylvia's confidence, her personality and friendliness, and—lest he be a fool not to admit it if only to himself—her generosity. These traits drew people to them, and maintained their loyalty. Without Sylvia as his constant to comfort the people and instill in them that their King aka Oswald had their best interests at heart (when, really, Oswald could sometimes care little about what the people wanted), it would make his job harder. Meanwhile, Isaac Paddock's people had no idea just how lucky they were going to be having Sylvia as their one and only leader.

"How does this make you feel, Oswald?" Ed asked gently.

"Admittedly, uncomfortable."

"Have you told her that?"

"Of course not." Oswald scoffed.

"Why is that?"

"She and I both know that the Paddock family is vital to Gotham's stability. Paddock himself can be stubborn as a ram, but the people on the mainland like him enough to supply Gotham with more than enough resources—most of it is legal, at least."

"Controlling the family single-handedly is not your forte?"

"It's not that I couldn't rule them."

"You're too busy."

"Precisely that," Oswald agreed, relieved to know that not only Sylvia understood his predicament but Ed was aware of it too. "That, and I can't be the face of Gotham as its Mayor if I'm sitting at the head of the Paddock Family."

"Despite the fact you're always sitting at the Head of the Table."

"Hypothetically speaking."

Ed and Oswald grinned at each other, knowing how great those hypotheticals could be, especially when they used them with the police or reporters such as Vale.

"When is her meeting supposed to conclude?" Ed asked.

"Sometime later this morning."

"And she'll be calling?"

"More than likely," Oswald alluded curiously. "We'll hope together that Isabella and Sylvia don't tie up the phone lines."

Ed laughed at his humor; and it made Oswald smile in turn. It was at that moment that the phone rang, and both men glanced at it then at one another, wondering which woman had called first. Ed curiously stood and quickly ambled to the phone, picking it up on the third ring.

"Hello," Ed greeted. His once happy smile sobered into a serious frown. "This is Edward Nygma…Why? Very well." He placed the phone down on the receiver. "That was the GCPD. They want to see me. Wouldn't say why."

"Oh?"

"You don't think that something happened?" Ed asked nervously.

"Nooo," Oswald said, waving at him.

Ed smiled, relieved.

* * *

Ed and Oswald drove to the GCPD in a single car with Ed in the driver's seat; Oswald, in the passenger's seat. Taking a limousine to the GCPD for what was going to be a dark precedence seemed over the top. When they made their way into the GCPD, there was a certain disorientation about; notably, James Gordon and Captain Nathaniel Barnes were absent, probably on a caper of some sort.

The Desk Sergeant who greeted the Mayor and the Chief-of-Staff politely escorted them towards the Medical Examiner's table. For whatever reason, Lee Thompkins was absent as well; her assistant was there to substitute this unfortunate occasion.

On the slab of the gurney was a body, a black sheet draped over it. Ed was there to identify the body, and as the M.E's assistant pulled the cover off, Ed sucked in a sharp gasp as he surveyed Isabella's mangled up body.

One of the police officers approached Oswald, leaning into him. He was dismissed shortly after. Oswald approached Ed and said as gently as he could, "The officer said she fell off a bridge and into rush hour traffic. Yours was the last number in her phone. I am so, so sorry, Ed."

"Did she suffer?"

Oswald glanced at the corpse: "No."

Ed sighed sadly.

"Anything you need, Ed," Oswald empathized. "Anything at all. I am here for you."

He looked at Oswald, numb. Then stoically placed himself within Oswald's reach. Oswald hugged him, happy to feel Ed so close again, even if the situation was grueling and unfortunate (for Ed).

"Come, friend. You need to rest." He uttered, patting Ed on the shoulder. "Let's get you home."

"Sure…"


	55. Charleen

Chapter Fifty-Five: Charleen

* * *

Isaac Paddock lived smack dab in the middle of Gotham City, on the richer side where the posh resided. He was about two miles away from Wayne Enterprises; the Wayne Bullet Train could be heard speeding across the metal rails from time to time, transporting the civilians around the city. Normally, this sort of noise would drive a person crazy, but only if one could hear it.

Seeing that Isaac was deaf, this would not have been a problem for him.

Sylvia approached the two-story house, minding the small stairway that lead to the rich mahogany red door. No need to knock, seeing as Isaac wouldn't hear her, and the necessity of doing so was moot. On the door was a taped piece of notebook paper, folded for privacy.

She took it off, reading it: ' _The door is unlocked, dear. Come inside, make yourself a drink. Yours, Isaac._ '

Assuming that he was addressing herself as 'dear', she took the invitation cautiously, opening the door just a little and holding her Glock, waist-level. For all she knew, it was a trap; and she hardly dared to be conceived as a naïve little idiot.

The door creaked open, eerily so. And when Sylvia stepped inside, she was met with a brighter atmosphere than the dreary gray the city always weathered. The floor itself was carpet, but with every step, Sylvia was sure she felt an almost tunic vibration. This was how Isaac knew he had a guest…or an intruder.

Surprisingly, she'd made it halfway in and hadn't seen a single soul. Not a body guard nor any other valiant efforts to keep out or detain those who had ill intentions. Then again, the man was dying, was he not? What did he care if someone was going to end his life by other means than what was natural?

Sylvia walked inside the living room. No one there. Although the pleasantries of the interior design allowed an unnatural sense of home to swell in her heart. For someone who was richer than the rest of the Families, Isaac Paddock lived a simpler life—more middle class than first. A velvet couch, a swarthy armchair with a woolen duvet, end tables made of faux oak, and book cases filled with hand-me-down books.

There was a pang in her heart with the feeling of home. Mainly because this reminded her of how she lived. With the exception of Sylvia living and faring on the streets for experience and otherwise rebelling against her father's attempts to domesticate her free spirit, Sylvia and Jim were always living in modern, modest circumstances.

Living with Oswald and his expensive tastes had nearly numbed her own privy for simpler things. Not that she could complain.

As she approached the backyard, boundary lines marked by white picket fences, a voice became more prominent. Sylvia peeked through maroon-colored curtains to see Isaac Paddock knelt down on one knee, conversing in sign language with a young girl on the porch.

The young lady had dark auburn hair, with the biggest bounciest curls. She could not have been older than fifteen, around Bruce Wayne's age, even. As though the young lady could detect a person's presence, she peered over Isaac's shoulder, her eyes narrowing. It was at this moment that Sylvia realized that this girl had one bright green eye; the other was dark blue.

Isaac glanced over his shoulder, initially guarded. When he saw Sylvia peeking through the curtains, he smiled widely and made a gesture for her to come outside and join them.

Sylvia slid the door open, approaching them both. As she did, Isaac stood to his full height; while his spine was curving due to his older age, he still stood taller than Sylvia. The girl was shorter, her head reaching Sylvia's shoulders.

She wore tight skinny jeans with a long-sleeve shirt two sizes too big for her.

Isaac signed: ' _Sylvia, I'm so happy to see you!_ "

Sylvia signed back as she spoke: "It's great to see you too. Who is this?"

"I'm Charleen."

Sylvia was a little taken aback to hear the girl speak, and so curtly too.

Isaac patted her on the shoulder in a reprimanding manner. Charleen, as her name was, gave him a cool glance then stared at Sylvia with a challenging gaze.

He signed apologetically, ' _Don't pay any mind to her. She can be a little rambunctious at times._ '

"I'm not rambunctious!" Charleen said grumpily. "I just don't like being talked about like I'm not here. She could've easily asked _me_ who I am. I'm _here_ , you know."

Isaac smiled again, apologetic as before. His cheeks turned a bright shade of pink as he became embarrassed, but Sylvia's eyebrows quirked upwards in amusement and surprise.

"Fine." Sylvia offered, folding her hands behind her back. "I'll address you personally, Charleen. Are you a family member of Isaac's?"

"No. I'm his _friend_. Duh."

"Well, I'm his friend too." Sylvia said patiently.

"Yeah, well, there ain't anybody in the Flea who doesn't know who you are, Lark."

"Good to know. Are you from the Flea?"

"Everyone is either from the Flea or never has been. I guess you've never been, seeing how you're wearing all that." Charleen sniffed, gesturing to Sylvia's jewelry on her neck, her earrings, and the ring on her hand. "You go to the Flea, you're gonna get robbed out of the yin yang."

"I go to the Flea on occasion, and no one has dared to rob me yet." Sylvia returned smartly. "If you're willing to give it a shot, I'll let you have one."

Charleen's comeback was lost on her. She glanced at Isaac, who had tapped her harshly on the back of her head—a quick reprimand for her rudeness, no doubt. Charleen batted his hand away and said grumpily, "Fine, I'm going, I'm going. I'm leaving too, so whatever. See you later, old man."

She started to leave, but Isaac grabbed her wrist. She looked at him reprovingly, but he handed her a money clip filled with rolled up ten-dollar bills and she took it with a modest smile and a quick thanks. Sylvia watched Charleen jump the fence, and sprint out of sight.

Isaac, in the meantime, turned to Sylvia: _'Come to the kitchen; I've put on some tea._ '

Sylvia gestured for him to go in first, and she followed him.

* * *

Isaac poured them both a cup of a tea, placing each on a matching white saucer. Rather than sitting in the dining room, they ventured into the living room where it was much more comfortable. Due to Isaac's disability and seeing as there were no other hearing individuals in the area besides Sylvia herself, they signed their conversation as a whole.

' _I have to apologize on Charleen's behalf_ ,' said Isaac modestly. ' _She has a hard time meeting new people. None the less, talking to them. And she's protective of me._ '

Sylvia smiled: ' _Is she your granddaughter?_ '

Isaac laughed at that, although his laugh came out wheezy. He said, ' _No, no, no. As I mentioned before, I don't have any living kin. Charleen is a take-in. I found her on the street when she was ten. She refuses to live with me, chooses the streets instead of a stable home, I suppose._ '

"Where are her parents?" Sylvia asked, forgoing sign language altogether. Not that this interrupted their conversation; Isaac could read lips.

' _Gone._ '

"They're dead?"

Isaac nodded.

"How did they die?"

' _That varies._ ' Isaac returned with a chuckle and a shake of his head. ' _The police say they were burned alive in their beds. By their daughter, no less._ '

"And what does Charleen say?" asked Sylvia, interested.

' _She doesn't_. _She says nothing. And I don't think she cares. And I care enough that I don't ask._ '

"How long has she been on the streets?"

' _Almost five years. She comes by when she wants, mostly when she needs money to survive and hasn't been able to steal anything from anyone in a while_.' Isaac explained sadly. ' _I've tried to help her, to take her in, but she doesn't trust me enough. Not yet. She's been in and out of foster homes, some of them…Some of them haven't been the kindest to her. The stories she's told me…_ '

"That's sad," Sylvia empathized. "Is there anything I can do?"

Isaac grinned, patting her shoulder: ' _Your rumored generosity doesn't live up to what it is truly._ '

"Meaning?"

Isaac smiled sadly, ' _I know I am asking a lot from you. As I mentioned before, however, I am dying. I can feel myself getting weaker, older…I'm not as sharp as I once was…_ '

"I understand," Sylvia reassured. "I spoke to my husband. We are both in agreement."

' _That's a relief_. _There is but one more thing I must ask you to do._ '

"Of course."

' _While I'm on this earth, I will show you what I know, and building your affluence within the Family so no one in my circle will cross you. In the meantime, when after I've gone, I'd like you to watch over Charleen. I've been trying to get her to open up to me, but she has buried inside herself so far that I've not been able to reach her. But, after some time, she may open up to you._ '

"Because I'm a woman?" Sylvia joked.

' _Perhaps. But like her, you've endured tribulations, none of which I've had to contend with. She has no friends, and in this city, you need at least one good friend. I've been trying to be that friend, but I can only do so much but give her what I have._ '

Sylvia nodded: "I'll do what I can."

' _Thank you, Lark_.'

She smiled: "Call me 'Liv'. All my friends do."

' _Very well. Thank you, Liv._ '

It was this moment that her cell phone went off. Sylvia smiled apologetically before she put the phone to her ear, "This is Sylvia."

"How much longer are you going to be at this meeting, Pigeon?"

Sylvia glanced at Isaac and mouthed 'Penguin'. Isaac waved at her to take care of the call and that he'd fill up their tea cups.

"We're finishing up, Love. Why? What is it?"

"It's Ed."

"What happened?"

"The GCPD called us to identify Isabelle's body."

"You mean 'Isabella'."

" _Whatever_."

"Dismiss the living, but at least respect the dead."

"The dead, I respect. Her: Not so much."

"That's evident," Sylvia snickered. "Is Ed okay?"

Oswald sighed, "Not at all. He's been in bed all day, listening to classical music on the loudest volume you can imagine."

"That's how he's coping."

"It's giving me a headache, and frankly, if I'm being honest: It's creeping me out."

"Have some compassion, Sweetheart. He's dealing with a tragedy."

"You're right," Oswald murmured. "But we have something else to handle now."

"Someone else that needs to be murdered?"

"Not necessarily. But Ed's going to say good-bye."

"Well, that might be good for him."

"As in, he's going to the crime scene."

"You mean 'accident'."

"Sylvia, I swear to god—"

"Just trying to play the part," Sylvia returned pointedly. "Getting away with murder means not alluding to it, even if it's between us."

"I'm aware of how to get away with murder."

"Then stop acting like an amateur and stop panicking."

"Technically, you won't be able to speak to me like that anymore once you're the new Head of the Paddock Family."

"Head of the Family, Queen of Gotham, a bum in the Narrows—Regardless of what I am, I'll talk to you however I want, Love." Sylvia said with an ambiguous sultry tone that even Oswald detected over the phone. "And you'll love every minute of it."

Oswald quickly ghosted over the subtle sexual implications and said crisply, "Just finish your meeting and come home straight after."

"Yes, Boss." Sylvia responded.

She heard him snicker; after he said, "I love you."

"As I love you."

They hung up and Isaac came back with a cup of tea. They continued their conversation with light jokes and spoke the business for the future of the Paddock Family.


	56. Ed Says Good-Bye

Chapter Fifty-Six: Ed Says Good-Bye

Author's Note: Thank you all sooooo much for your reviews and all your theories. Some of you are really in my head—get out! Kidding, but seriously, some of you really know where I'm heading with my subtle hints and foreshadowing. I won't say which of your ideas are correct, but most of you are in the right ballpark 😊 Hope you all had a wonderful Turkey Day and didn't get too badly injured this past Black Friday. That said, here's another chapter (50% off, haha, see what I did there!).

* * *

Edward Nygma slowly stepped out of his personal vehicle, taking care to shelter the bouquet of white tulips and red roses from hitting the roof of the car as he did. He'd parked a block away from the bridge, wishing to take the walk the rest of the way to better pay his respects for the woman he'd loved and then, too quickly as Fate served to be a cruel mistress, lost.

He stood on the bridge, somewhere between the beginning and the end. His eyes somberly cast downward to the traffic below. While not the rush hour traffic that it would become following the next few hours, there was a reasonable amount that if he were to fall to his death as Isabella had, he'd likely meet the same ill-begotten fate at the behest of the semi-trucks that swept through the clearing below.

The ugly thought of his death mirroring hers made him feel a little light-headed. Placing the bouquet on the edge, he wearily held the half-wall, which in comparison to his tall stature, met his knees.

This fact—as a matter-of-fact—jolted the wiring in his mind that served to be his analytical half.

Why did Isabella, a woman who was at least a foot shorter than he, lose her balance and _fall_ over the edge? He rubbed the top of the halfway, his eyes narrowing when he saw a fair trace amount of a maroon stain along the concrete surface. At nightfall, it could hardly be distinguished from the dampened earth within the narrowed, thin crevices that became all but a home for mold. In the sunshine, the maroon overcast became a lighthouse to his Forensic eye.

This was blood on the half-wall, particularly where he stood. Taking that into consideration, Ed placed the bouquet about five inches from where the splatter was, hoping it didn't ruin the flowers too much. Granted, they were just as dead as _she_ was currently, so what did it matter?

" _You're in deep thought."_

Ed heard his own voice speak as a detachment of himself; he didn't try to summon the willpower not to roll his eyes. Ed lifted his gaze from the flowers to the reflection of himself, sitting on the half-wall opposite of him.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Ed questioned, annoyed.

The other Ed, who was still presumably his darker half, grinned from ear-to-ear. Their clothes, as in any other time this cretin appeared, were mirrored; the only difference was that his other half never wore glasses.

"Oh, come on," Edward uttered, clearly not offended by his doppelganger's irritation. "You practically summoned me."

"I did no such thing. Now, if you'll excuse me," Ed said flippantly, turning back to the flowers. "I have to say good-bye to someone."

"So, you're not going to ask yourself aloud about why that blood is doing on this bridge?"

Ed frowned, turning his head ever so slightly to give the _other_ Ed the satisfaction to know he was listening, even if he was trying his best to extinguish him from his hindsight.

"This is Gotham. That blood could have come from anyone."

"True," Edward said lazily, hopping off the half-wall. "But that looks pretty fresh, don't you think?"

"Muggings happen all the time."

"Looks like this one happened just recently."

Ed sighed irritably. Was it only _his_ figments of imagination that could get under his skin so easily, or did anyone else ever have this problem? Pointedly, Ed turned towards his other half, frowning, however, when the reflection pointed languidly at the blood splatter, circling its odd formation.

"Looks like someone had a nice little scuffle too," Edward added, gesticulating to the ground. "There's blood on the concrete. And it looks fresh as well."

"Really."

"If you don't believe me—"

"Oh, no, I'll take your word for it." Ed responded wholeheartedly, albeit irately, glaring at him.

"How tall was she?" Edward questioned.

Ed frowned: "Five feet, three inches."

"Her waist barely clears the wall."

"Yes."

Edward offered, "So how could she _lose_ her balance" (He mockingly tilted forward and waved his arms theatrically as though he might fall over the wall himself) "when she would have needed to try to lift herself over it."

Ed found his other half's melodramatic inferences a little too over the top, and as annoying as the interruptions were while he was attempting to say good-bye to Isabella, they haunted him.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking," Edward declared knowingly, pointing at Ed then to himself. "There's no two ways about it, seeing as what I know you know and what I suspect reflects your own suspicions. Isabella 'lost' her balance on the bridge? That makes _no_ sense!"

Ed reluctantly agreed, "So she didn't lose her balance. If not that, then what?"

"Why was she here alone?" Edward questioned incredulously, glancing from one direction to the other. "Why would she have even _been_ here? She had a library conference."

"She appreciated the simpler things," Ed said defensively, bringing his glasses to the bridge of his nose before they started creeping downward again. "She appreciated nature, enough. She would've come here to get some fresh air."

"After having a night with _us_?" Edward retorted in disbelief.

His other half's response was smug, but he was no less correct. Isabella enjoyed her time with him, regardless of what happened afterwards. She had been a passionate and generous lover, and, to both of their knowledge, had enjoyed herself extensively. So why the need to take a walk afterwards? Why waste time on the bridge by herself when she knew she had a librarian conference to go to—and, no less, had to beat the traffic and driving distance to make her hotel reservation?

Ed's frown deepened.

"Who would she have been meeting?" He uttered darkly, glancing down at his feet to the splatter and spots of blood to the marking on the wall. He glared at it, pounding his fist against it with all his might before throwing the flowers into the water with an exasperated sigh of frustration.

"It _never_ ends!" Ed growled.

Every time he found love, someone (either by his own hand or another) took it from him!

" _Hello_?"

Ed startled, hearing someone else's voice that wasn't either his or a detachment of it. He lifted his eyes to where his other half had been standing, only to find no one there much to his reprieve. He peered over his shoulder to see a vagrant approach, holding a cane and wearing sunglasses.

"Is someone here?" He asked timidly. "I heard a voice…"

Ed rolled his eyes, vaguely giving a response to alert the blind man to his presence. Even if only in the literal sense, no one should be left in the dark when there was clearly no reason to be.

"Are you here to ask about what happened on the bridge too?"

Ed quirked an eyebrow.

"No. Why?" He said quickly. "Do you know something?"

"Are you a police officer?"

"No. The woman who died here…Isabella…" Ed's voice broke. "She was the love of my life. I just came here to pay my respects, to say good-bye. I wasn't here to protect her—"

"No offense, young man," said the Vagrant apologetically, "but I doubt there would have been anything you could do."

Well, that certainly was a juicy tidbit of information.

Ed glowered, saying, "What do you mean?"

"She was screaming," he said, shaking his head solemnly. "Two people…a man…a woman…They sounded like they were trying to kill her. And then a gunshot—"

"—Wait, someone _shot_ her!" Ed rounded angrily.

"Oh, yes! Your lady love, your Isabella, sounded like she was hurt. Both women were screaming, like they were trying to kill each other."

Ed grabbed the man's clothes.

"What did they say—the people who were trying to hurt her, what did they say!"

"I'm sorry, I don't know! I couldn't understand half of it," the man said urgently.

"Did they say a name!"

"Y-Yes, they said a name!"

"Whose!" Ed demanded.

"Tabitha." The vagrant said quickly, brushing his hands over Ed's. "Yes, I think she said her name was Tabitha. Her and a man were yelling at each other, to kill her. Your friend was screaming that name just before she was pushed over the bridge."

His breathing was shallow, racing heartbeat. Ed tried to process this, to make sense of it all.

 _Calm down, man._ Ed berated himself. _Don't let your emotions get the best of you._

And with that, he allowed his cooler façade to take over. Logic over emotion. Mind over matter.

It was the only thing that set himself apart from all the other children on the playground, the only thing that really got him ahead in life—the one thing that really set himself apart from his emotional, raging alcoholic father and his sympathetic but passive, fearful mother.

Be calm. Be cool. Get the facts, and see the big picture. Just like solving a riddle.

"Thank you," Ed said briskly, placing a twenty in the man's hand.

"What is this? A receipt?"

Ed smirked. Was it so awful that he found the homeless man's ignorance to what he held in his hand so funny? Taking mercy on him, Ed told him what it was ("It's a twenty, sir.") and then left to solve the murder of his beloved.


	57. Charleen's One Rule

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Charleen's One Rule

* * *

Falcone held meetings in his own mansion regarding business. Oswald did the same in his mansion. The same was with the Maronis, the Andersons, The Drays, and the Belich Family were of the mindset, even Tommy Bones, who formed his own gang shortly after Salvatore Maroni took one in the head by Fish Mooney, as well as the Duke, who controlled the borders near the Narrows.

The only exception to the tradition was Isaac Paddock, who preferred to hold his meetings away from his own home separately as he believed that home and work life should be divided, not grouped together. So, it was by this tradition that Isaac hosted the first gathering among his people in, quite literally, his own backyard.

It didn't just confuse Sylvia; it disarmed her.

His explanation for it was that he saw the Paddock Crime Family as if they were his own family. Not that it was a stretch; he hadn't any other kin, and aside from the rude little street brat, Charleen, Sylvia didn't think he had much family _except_ for the ones neck-deep in crime.

She watched five of his strong-armed body guards put out a few hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, and a gathering of twenty people bring their potato salad, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, homemade desserts, and breaded cheese wheels to place out along the dining table, which had been moved from the inside of the house to the porch outback.

While everyone was outside, putting back cold beers, making margaritas, and pouring sodas for their more non-alcoholic brethren, Sylvia simply stared from behind the sliding glass door, eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement and, moreover, amusement.

She felt a hand lightly tap her shoulder and she swiftly turned before seeing Isaac Paddock standing there, smiling knowingly at the reason behind her jumpy response. Lowering her guard, Sylvia sheathed her switchblade into the back pocket of her jeans.

Casual dress codes were, by far, her favorite and she had taken full advantage, wearing her jeans, tennis shoes, and a black camisole. Her hair was braided into a French plait updo; the bangs of her hair folded neatly back and held to a side part by a small little barrette.

Isaac glanced at it momentarily, pointing to it enthusiastically.

Sylvia chuckled, taking it out so he could admire it. To his amusement, it was silver, and in the shape of a penguin.

With one hand, Isaac signed, ' _Your husband's idea?_ '

Sylvia chortled, "One of many."

Isaac did not only give it back to her but he offered to pin her bangs back just the way Oswald had done with the rest of her hair. She allowed him to, and Isaac grinned.

' _He's protective of you_.'

"As I am of him, if not more." Sylvia offered in his defense.

' _Does he know you're here_?'

"It's been a couple of days since I've actually spoken to him face-to-face for more than a few minutes," She explained, shrugging her shoulder. "He's been a little preoccupied with other priorities at the moment." _Like Ed telling Oswald that he knew Isabella was murdered and that he was going after Tabitha and Butch for good measure._

Now, that had been a scene.

Sylvia hadn't been home for that; in fact, she'd come to the mansion about a quarter to midnight before learning from Oswald that Ed had spoken to a homeless man (that _damn_ homeless man) about what he'd heard that day. Sylvia hadn't thought much about the homeless man since she and Alex had pushed Isabella off the bridge, but having used Tabitha's name instead of her own had been a stroke of genius on her part.

One of which she wasn't too arrogant to admit, not just to herself but to confide it to Oswald, who couldn't help but agree with her.

However, that really did put another wrench in the machine, didn't it? Tabitha Galavan was a bitch to be reckoned with, and one that needed to die more times than what her human body could possibly withstand, but there was a part of Sylvia that felt unhinged at that idea.

Sylvia hated Tabitha. She _hated_ her. Yet, Tabitha dying for a reason completely made-up didn't sit well with her. However, it didn't make Sylvia sick enough to break her promise to Oswald not to tell Ed about Isabella and her weasel of a plan.

If Tabitha died because Isabella said her name instead of Sylvia's and _Ed_ was going to kill her for it, Sylvia could live with that for the most part. She'd lived with worse mistakes in the past.

Sylvia felt Isaac pat her shoulder again. She smiled apologetically, "Sorry. Lost in thought, I guess."

He made a gesture that said 'You're forgiven' and then asked, ' _Why are you not outside_?'

"When you said you were going to make the initial meeting a casual one, I didn't realize you were talking _this_ informal," She mused with a smirk. "They're literally having a barbeque."

' _They're having fun, and they're relaxed._ ' Isaac signed. He put a hand over his heart, signing with one hand only, ' _It's all a leader really wants from their people._ '

"Why the informality?"

' _What better way to introduce their new leader than to acclimate them in a way that only she understands_?'

Sylvia's amusement faltered slightly. Was Isaac making fun of her? As though he'd read her body language like an open book (as she normally was, anyway), Isaac let out a small laugh, grinning from ear-to-ear.

' _You may live in a mansion, wear expensive clothes, and act like him from time to time, but you do not run things like your husband._ ' Isaac signed honestly. ' _Everyone knows you like things to be informal, and everyone knows that the rich to-do, upper-class mannerisms nor the harsh, bitter cynicism the rest of the world personifies will not affect how you respond to them._ '

The original knee-jerk response to be offended suddenly became one of affection.

Oswald had bought her expensive dresses, jewelry to match. He'd built them an empire, earning more money than she'd have ever hoped to earn at her age, and he always thought of himself as a 'gentleman of crime', held to the same standard of professionalism and civility he'd tried to emulate from Carmine Falcone. And granted, some of his expensive tastes and professional, business-like idiosyncrasies had rubbed off on her, no matter how rich or powerful they became, Sylvia couldn't be that.

Her last name was Cobblepot, but Sylvia would always be a Gordon. Chip-on-the-shoulder, down-to-earth, stubborn as fuck, crass, and, more often than not, argumentative.

Isaac Paddock was none the wiser.

"You hear me even when I say nothing," Sylvia said softly. "Don't you?"

' _You ran Gotham when Penguin was incarcerated in Arkham. You ran Gotham when he was acting odd_ because _of Arkham. And, even now, while he's Mayor, you run Gotham due to your own obligation to him and his passions, but honestly, Lark…I know you don't want to run this city. And you don't like being in charge._ ' Isaac said with the swiftness of his hands. ' _You're a devout leader unto yourself, and a reluctant leader to an array of people. You're either a Queen of Gotham or of nothing at all—personally, I think maybe you'd thrive, just being somewhere in the middle_.'

Sylvia smiled: "Being Queen runs me to the ground but not being a boss makes me bored? Is that what you're saying?"

Isaac shrugged: ' _If I'm wrong, tell me.'_

She didn't deny it.

' _It's why I want you to be my heir,_ ' Isaac explained whole-heartedly. ' _What's more is you're not a 'boss'. A boss commands a thing to get done, tells people to do it no matter what, doesn't care what the people think or how they feel about what is being done just as long as the ends are met. A leader commands a thing to get done, helps the people do it, cares about the emotions of her people, their struggles, rewards their sacrifices, and points the finger of blame to herself when things go awry._ '

"So, by that definition, I _am_ a boss."

Isaac shook his head: ' _By that definition, Penguin is. Not you. You're a leader._ '

"What's the difference?"

Isaac cracked a grin: ' _Tons_.'

"Name one."

' _You learned sign language so you could better understand me._ _And I know you'd go to war for your people, even if you had to stand alone.'_

"You don't think Oswald would do the same?"

Isaac let out a scoff: ' _When has he ever_?'

"He's done it a couple of times."

' _My dear, the only time I've ever seen him become blood thirsty is because someone either inconvenienced him or they managed to get to the people he truly and irrevocably loves. So, the only person he'd ever wage war for in this life or the next is either for his own benefit or because of you. As a husband, he holds merit. As a leader, there would be no other contender but you. Well…You or maybe your brother.'_

Sylvia glanced at him, startled by his after-comment, but he didn't speak much after that. Instead, he offered to let her outside so they could partake in the food and beverage before the ravenous horde of men scavenged what was left on the grill.

Sylvia snickered at his cryptic foresight, sighing, "You're one mysterious old man, aren't you, Isaac."

He simply smiled back at her with a twinkle in his eye.

* * *

She spent the better part of the dinner getting to know Isaac's people. None of them really made lasting impressions, except one.

Blonde flat top, no facial hair, gray eyes, and he looked like he could've been a Ringer in a boxing match. According to him, he participated in a lot of swordsmanship hobbies, and he was very capable of wielding a Samurai Sword—he provided an example with the fireplace's poker stick and his movements and skill had been the better part of the dinner's entertainment. He was lightning quick and he didn't say much of anything until someone actually went out of their way to start a conversation with him.

His smoldering good looks and the silent ambiguity that contrasted with his otherwise outspoken swordsmanship drew Sylvia to get to know him while he drank a beer and she, a margarita. The rest of the dinner guests were either hanging out with their feet in Isaac's pool, or back inside, playing a game of pool or poker.

It was almost six in the evening, and the sun would set in about two hours.

"What's your name?" Sylvia said interestedly.

"No name." He answered in a small grunt; after he drained a full beer in less than a minute. He set the empty bottle down, letting out a small burp in the process.

"Fine then. What do people call you?"

He eyed her carefully. His chiseled jaw torqued a hint of annoyance before he finally said, "Benson."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Benson's your name?" asked Sylvia with a smirk. "That's such a simple name for someone like you. I was expecting something like, I don't know, 'killer'…or 'Ripper'."

Benson was staring at something before he turned his gaze back to her. He glanced her up and down and said in a deep baritone voice, "You're flirting with me."

"What a way to point out the obvious, Ben."

"It's _Benson_. Not Ben. And I don't flirt with married women."

"Do you flirt with married men?" Sylvia teased.

Benson shot her a quick glance, one that wasn't easily read before he said quickly, "No. I don't flirt with any married men, either."

"That's a lot of hesitation you just shown me. Especially at how quickly you just shot _me_ down."

"Not used to getting told 'no', huh?"

Sylvia snickered, "Oh, I'm used to hearing 'no'. I'm just not used to hearing it spoken so confidently. Like you're pretty damn sure of yourself, as if you really don't want to see just what I'm capable of. A lot of these pricks have thought about it." She gestured to the others around them. "So, I know someone like you, full of testosterone, has."

Benson gave her a look, like he might've considered her statement as a fact but he simply shook his head and threw his beer halfway across the backyard, getting it into the trashcan. Sylvia whistled low, drinking the rest of her margarita.

"Might wanna slow down on that," Benson advised. "You're getting pretty loose."

The comment made her smile, mainly because he was right. Sylvia knew she was flirting with him, and if Oswald had been directly beside her, she wouldn't have. Smart of Benson to call her on it. She drank half of it and handed it to him.

"Maybe you're right. How about finishing that one off for me so I'm not tempted?"

Benson rolled his eyes before he took the rest of her margarita, woofed it down, and scooted the glass away from her.

"So, what are you to Isaac Paddock, hm?" She inquired. "Are you his body guard, his hitman…"

"No. And no."

"Fuck buddy?"

Benson's eyebrows raised to his forehead and he quickly looked at her, disarmed. And she noticed.

"Why'd you say that?"

"Which part?" She teased.

"What you just said."

"It was a brainstorm." Sylvia explained. "Am I right?"

"No."

"So, if you're not his body guard…?'

"I'm his accountant."

"Really?" asked Sylvia lowly, looking him up and down. "I thought accountants were less beefy."

"There you go," Benson sighed. "Flirting with me again."

"Honestly, I doubt Oswald could blame me." She said with a smile. "Hell, he'd probably like you too."

"Really. I didn't know that about the Penguin."

"Not a lot of people do."

"So, why're you telling me?"

"Because I'm having fun flirting with you and to assuage my guilt of doing so and to stop you from making any more glaringly obvious factual statements, I'm bringing my husband into the conversation so you'd think more of me."

Benson's eyes widened at her logic, mainly because most women of her size and stature weren't so clear-headed enough to even say their name after having as many drinks as she had in the past two hours.

"So, you're his accountant," Sylvia continued, clicking her tongue. "What's that like?"

"It's boring work."

"Are you the go-between for the Mainland and this wonderful, dreary, violent island?"

"More or less."

"Sounds like a pretty important job."

"It is."

"Sounds _really, really_ boring."

"It is."

"I thought you said you didn't like it."

"It's boring, but I like it," Benson said patiently. He looked at her again. "Why do you care?"

"Because I'm taking Isaac's place at the head of the table, and I want to know who you all are. Including _you,_ ya big tree trunk with legs."

"Wow…" Benson muttered, shaking his head. "No wonder Penguin's always looking at you with that look."

"What look?"

"Like he can't wait to fuck you. Hides it well, for the most part. Except when you're dishing out his orders, or playing Devil's Advocate for him. Like a dog obeying commands. Eagerly too, and if not eager, then blindly."

It was Sylvia's turn to look at him, disarmed: "Well, aren't we more talkative."

"Just saying what I see."

"And what do you see?"

"Someone who's either making men's balls go blue or breaking them."

Sylvia giggled, "You're funny, Benson."

"Good to know. We done here?"

"Yeah."

He stood up to leave and didn't look back at her. She watched him leave, tilting her head to the side: "Nice ass."

" _You're gonna be in big trouble if Penguin finds out you're checking out other guys._ "

Sylvia smirked, turning her head to see Charleen walking up to her. She'd jumped the fence, as she'd done in their initial greeting, and sat at her table with a plate of leftover hamburgers, potato salad, and a croissant.

"He won't find out," Sylvia said, leaning forward with her arms crossed on the table. "Plus, it's harmless. I don't mean any of it."

"Wanna bet?" Charleen asked, taking a large bite of hamburger. While she spoke, she chewed her food: "You're getting wasted on some fruity drinks, talking to Benson, acting like a ho, and you don't think anyone's gonna tell that chump what you've been up to?"

Sylvia placed her chin in her hand, saying, "You're more talkative since we last spoke."

"When I saw you last, there wasn't food." She took another big bite, some ketchup dribbled from her lips to her chin. "I don't know why Isaac's having you take his place anyway. He's dying, but he ain't dead yet. Until he is, you really aren't gonna be the head of anything."

 _Sassy little thing._

"You don't care who I am, do you?" Sylvia asked curiously.

" _Nope_ ," Charleen returned cattily. "I don't. I care less."

"So that means you do."

"I _just_ said I don't!"

"I know what you said." Sylvia assured. "What you meant to say is 'I couldn't care less'. What you said basically means you _do_ care but you care less about it right now. If you 'couldn't care less' that means you don't care and there's no possible way you could care anymore than you don't already."

Charleen let out a snarky sigh and rolled her eyes deeply into the back of her head, "Someone's being too politically correct for her own good. Lame, in my opinion."

"The fact that you listened to any of that says something about you too, dear."

Charleen put down her burger a little too aggressively: " _Don't_ call me 'dear'." She stood, pointing at Sylvia, adding contemptuously, "I don't know you; you don't know nothing about me. No one calls me any fucking pet names, and if they do, they're dead. Got it!?"

Sylvia licked her lips, her tongue idling in the corner as she smiled. Calmly, she agreed. Steadily, Charleen sat back down in her seat, and grumpily ate the rest of the burger. What puzzled Sylvia was how Charleen continued to sit in front of her, rather than going inside to sit with Isaac or anywhere else other than near her antagonist.

Perhaps Charleen wanted to size her up, see what Sylvia, the Lark, was like up close. Most people at the Flea did the same thing. The only people who really ever came this close to threatening her life or even associating themselves so closely to her were Selina Kyle and Ivy Pepper.

"So, like, what's your deal?" Charleen questioned moodily. "Are you gonna be Isaac's boss or what?"

"Why's a kid like you so interested in what I'll be to him?"

"Because Isaac's my friend."

"And that means something to you?"

"Isaac is the only person who was ever nice to me," Charleen declared curtly. "And I wanna make sure you ain't trying to be some cunt who thinks they can just swoop in and kill him. Or try to use him. Okay!"

"That's fine," said Sylvia patiently. "But how about you try to be a little more polite to me? After all, I've been nothing but candid to _you_ , young lady."

Charleen frowned deeply, "I'll start talking polite the moment I start respecting you. That ain't today."

"Fair enough. After all, I've not really given you any reason _to_ respect me, have I?"

"Nope."

"Except for the fact that in spite of your successful attempts to insult me regardless of my candid approach to _you_ , that you fail to realize that while I have a strict policy against killing children, I'm still in the mindset to happily smack the shit out of you if you continue to insult me," Sylvia threatened coolly.

Charleen guffawed, "Whatever. There ain't nothing you can do to me that hasn't already been done. _Trust me_. You don't scare me."

Sylvia could see that was true. Some people said that, and they became instantly vulnerable. As though saying those words suddenly exposed their true fear. When Charleen said it, she meant it. Both her green and blue eyes remained transfixed on Sylvia, never dropping contact.

"So," Sylvia sighed, folding her hands together. "I heard a rumor that you burned your parents alive—"

Charleen leapt onto the table and struck Sylvia across the face so hard, she hadn't seen it coming! Just as her hand left her face after impact, Charleen's feet were on the ground, her hand holding an empty beer bottle, ready to continue what she believed to be an inevitable fight.

Sylvia, on the other hand, looked at Charleen, holding her face. When she withdrew her hand, she saw blood.

" _Don't talk about them_!" She shouted furiously, shaking the bottle. "Don't you fucking talk about them! You don't have the _right_ , you fucking bitch!"

Sylvia raised her hands and shoulder level, pulling back the urge to smack Charleen back.

"Hey, hey, hey," Sylvia hushed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked like that—"

"You don't ask about them at all! That's my one rule!" Charleen said loudly.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Sylvia kept her voice soft, and calm, even when Charleen was steadily raising hers to a shriek. After a minute of this, the guests from inside the house, including Isaac Paddock, had started lurking out to see what the noise was about. Sylvia's hands remained raised, only to deflect whatever strikes Charleen would try to make, but otherwise, she posed no threat.

"You don't talk about that!" Charleen growled. "No one talks about it unless _I_ wanna talk about it, and I don't want to talk about it!"

"Okay. Fair enough. We won't talk about it. We'll talk about something else—"

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, YOU HEAR ME!"

"We don't have to. We _won't_." Sylvia assured gently.

Charleen glanced to see Isaac signing for her to calm down, but she was already too embarrassed. Instead of sitting down and talking more, Charleen threw the empty beer bottle on the table—it shattered into a million pieces. And she sprinted for the fence. Sylvia didn't try to stop her, although she'd wanted to so she could apologize for upsetting her.

After Charleen had left, Sylvia looked at Isaac guiltily.

He walked over to her, and signed, ' _That's the response I received when I tried to ask her about it_.'

"I can certainly see why you didn't try asking again," said Sylvia understandably.

"She's a fucking mess." Benson muttered, shaking his head. " _That_ one is insane."

"Anger is a symptom of pain." Sylvia said softly, looking in the direction Charleen had fled. "She's holding onto a lot of it."

Isaac smiled at her and signed, ' _And that is why you make such a good leader. You care._ _Penguin…His problem is that he cares but he doesn't care enough_.'

"That may be." Sylvia agreed. "But my problem is that I care too much."

Isaac couldn't say much to this.


	58. One Busy Day

Chapter Fifty-Eight: One Busy Day

Author's Note: Hello, my Lovelies :) Happy Holidays! Thank you for all your beautiful reviews. My heart grows three sizes too big when I see I have one. This chapter itself is pretty emotional and it took a bit of time to write but I hope you love it XD

* * *

Benson, a gray-eyed, clean-cut brute of a man, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He stood as he always did directly beside Paddock, serving up his statements whenever Isaac requested an update on debt collections and the like. This was the fifth meeting in the last month where Sylvia was pulled from her clerical duties as the First Lady of Gotham, and hostess of her bar, as well as a few scheduled date nights between her and Oswald; sacrifices all of which were made in the best interest of the Paddock Crime Family.

Once again in Isaac's humble two-story abode, Sylvia sat on Isaac's right at the dining table, which could only seat ten people. This number included the occasional financial accountant (whenever Benson felt like the chair was worthy of his hard, rounded tush), a few of Isaac's more loyal subjects, and a well-rounded (both literally and figuratively) stout of a man, who voluntarily went by 'Pog'.

Pog was a beady-eyed, suit-wearing, handle-bar mustached guy. He said as much as the rest of Isaac's crew (which was barely anything at all). 'Pog' was an alias; and he was only there for one reason only, and that reason was taking place tonight.

When Pog stated his reason for his presence, Sylvia's eyebrows lifted to the ceiling as she turned to Isaac incredulously.

"You're rewriting your will?" She asked.

Isaac smiled, nodding: ' _Tonight is the night that you will officially be announced as my successor in front of the Family, my dear. Didn't Benson tell you_?'

Benson side-glanced him before Sylvia nodded.

"Yes, he did. But there wasn't any discussion about a lawyer being present."

"I'm not a lawyer," Pog said nasally. With chubby fingers, he held out a binder with laminated documentation. Carefully, he placed them in front of Sylvia, who eyed him curiously before turning her attention back to Isaac.

Isaac signed, ' _Pog is in charge of my estate._ '

"That's all good," Sylvia returned, "but I don't see why I'm here for that."

Benson sighed in exasperation; the natural baritone of his voice had a usual 'skeptical' sense to it. However, his affect insisted that he was genuinely attentive to Isaac's needs as he said lowly, "Don Paddock is entrusting everything to you, Lark. The Crime Family, the oversight of his businesses, including his finances."

Sylvia let out a nervous laugh. Isaac might've not been able to hear it, but the growing anxiety in her facial features was made too clear in his eyes.

"I'll take care of your businesses and the Family," She said, her tone was light-hearted. "But…" (She licked her lips quickly) "Your living will, and Power of Attorney…That can't go to _me_."

' _Why can't it go to you?_ '

"Isaac, I'm honored. Believe me. But…I don't know if you know this about me but I have trouble letting things go…People, included. If you were put on a ventilator, I couldn't in all good conscience say you deserve to live or die. I'm not capable of that much responsibility, of that much…"

Isaac shook his head, his own way of telling her to quiet down. Unknown to him, Sylvia's heart was beating frantically, and she kept her hands clasped together on her lap to forbid the others to see just how badly they were shaking.

Isaac gave the nonverbal order for everyone to leave them alone in the living room. Candidly, all of them, including Benson and Pog, left as he requested. Once they were out of earshot, Isaac glanced down at Sylvia's lap, noticing her hands—perhaps he'd known all along and didn't want her future subordinates to sense her weakness.

' _You have trouble letting people go?_ ' Isaac signed.

"Yes."

' _Tell me._ '

Sylvia laughed embarrassingly: "That would take a couple of hours."

He encouraged her to tell him a few instances.

' _But please_ ,' Isaac added. ' _Use your hands_.'

Steadily, Sylvia told him about Henry, Tiffany, Josh, Marci, and Freda. Her 'kiddos', and how she'd nearly begged for them to stay behind. However, they'd gone in Oswald's stead to become decoys for the GCPD so that Oswald could get revenge on Theodore Galavan. In the end, they'd all been gunned down.

Another incident, Sylvia explained dishearteningly, was when Mr. Bell had left. Her first trainer, a former member of the CIA who was an expert in hand-to-hand combat, and her ingrained butler, had left after receiving news of his impending death due to a cancerous tumor in his spine. He was the only person to come close to being her father figure.

Sylvia smiled sadly, wiping her cheek quickly before Isaac could see her tears. Finally, Sylvia told Isaac about her mother's disappearance from her life and the discovery of her suicide, and her own father's passing. Prior to their deaths, neither of them had accepted her.

"Needless to say," Sylvia spoke, her hands forgotten. "I have abandonment issues. I'm afraid to lose people. And if I can't protect the people I care about, it hurts me. More than what people realize. Maybe, even more than _I_ realize."

Isaac looked on her in sympathy and shared her pain. At the first hint of vulnerability, Isaac changed from a predecessor to an old man who listened to a young woman's trials. Her tribulations, he'd known of and the pain she'd endured, but these events that she described…Isaac knew he'd barely just scratched the surface. Like his talks with Charleen.

Sylvia rubbed her cheek. The wetness from the tears were itchy, and she chalked it up to her hair being in her face rather than a break in her cool, humorous façade.

' _It's devastating_ ,' Isaac signed, nodding his head slowly. ' _Being unable to protect the people we love. It's a helpless feeling_.'

"For some."

Isaac peered at her curiously. He added, ' _Helplessness comes to many in different forms. Fear. Sadness…'_

" **Rage**."

Isaac's eyes widened at how almost demonic Sylvia's voice attuned. Her eyes brightened at the familiarity of such a feeling, but there was nothing abnormal about her response. He expected her to say 'anger'. 'Rage', on the other hand, was a different type of emotion altogether.

' _You can control rage_ ,' Isaac signed sensibly. ' _Or it will control you._ '

Sylvia smiled and she let out a hysterical giggle: "If only people knew how often I wish it would. I'd probably feel less angry with myself than with other people."

' _Why would you feel angry at yourself_?'

Sylvia frowned, looking at her hands, which trembled at the knowledge and the answer to such a question. She responded in the softest way, "Because when others hurt the people closest to me, when they come for my family or my friends, it makes me feel helpless. It shouldn't happen though…I'm a _weapon_. I can fight. I can shoot. I'm stronger than five able-bodied men combined. So, when someone hurts the people I care about, I don't hate _them_."

"Then who?"

Sylvia bit her lower lip in silent regret when she spoke.

"I hate myself."

Isaac's eyebrows furrowed in a stronger pool of pity. The finer lines of his face deepened, and he looked upon Sylvia with a renewed sense of respect, but also one of knowing. And in his old age and years of wisdom, Isaac knew this was a side of Sylvia that not even Penguin or her brother were aware of. As she spoke, tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, and dripped down her face.

"When people hurt me, I don't care." Sylvia admitted with a sad smile; her eyes crinkled so the tears on her lashes dropped to her lap. "I've not cared for my own personal welfare in _years_. If it meant saving Oswald, or Jim…Ed, or any one of my men, I'd hand over my heart on a silver platter. But I've had my moments, you know…When I thought someone close to me had died…When I thought he was gone forever…"

Isaac knew what she was talking about. He signed, ' _You were thinking what the rest of us thought: Detective Gordon killed Penguin_ _on Falcone's orders._ '

"Jim found me on the rooftop of my apartment. To keep me from jumping, he told me the truth. Honestly, I wouldn't have killed myself. I wouldn't have jumped. I couldn't…Oswald wouldn't have wanted me to end my life over him. He'd have wanted me to live. I mean…He _does_ want me to live. He's alive right now, I don't know why I'm talking about him like he isn't." She gave a light chuckle after that.

Isaac shifted in his seat at the table, and he signed, ' _So, you won't hurt yourself. You won't kill yourself. So, when a perpetrator comes after someone close to you, the only way to feel better is to make that person hate their life to reflect the grandiosity of the injustice. Rage is a powerful thing, but it's cannibalistic.'_

"You don't understand. It's not just 'rage'," Sylvia tried to explain. "It's violence. It's…It's like something dark inside is trying to get out, and the moral part of me, that part of me that grew up with Jim by my side, is there to stop it. To tone it down. To tell me 'hey, this is the wrong way to act, calm the fuck down now'. And the smallest things used to do it. Whether someone called Oswald a 'freak' or would threaten him violence. It's a nagging feeling, a constant _urge_ to rip people's heads off their bodies whenever I feel like an injustice has been done to the people I care for."

' _That sounds frightening_.'

"You'd think so," Sylvia muttered. She twirled a piece of her hair around a finger, adding, "Sometimes, I wish I could just give into it, you know? Just let go. I've had so much happen to me—criminal violence, sexual assault…I've had people leave me as a kid and leave me as an adult…I've had close friends die because of my misdirection, and one of my closest allies and confidantes took my only daughter away from me."

Isaac patted her thigh, saying, ' _It's no wonder to me why you're angry. You're carrying a lot of pain. You've carried it alone for so long._ '

"Well, not alone, per se. I've had Jim." Sylvia reminded defensively. "I had Jim when I was younger. And I have Oswald."

' _And me._ ' Isaac reminded.

"Yes, and you."

They laughed quietly, but then a lightning bolt struck Sylvia (figuratively speaking). She looked at Isaac with the realization; the latter returned her expression with one of curiosity and interest.

' _What is it_?' Isaac asked.

"Something has just occurred to me," Sylvia gasped.

Isaac gestured her to quickly say it.

"Charleen is just like me when I was her age." She said quietly.

' _Is she, really?_ '

"Down to the same bitter, cynical, pop-me-in-the-mouth attitude."

' _Identical, then_.'

"With one exception."

' _And that is?_ '

Sylvia glanced at the table, murmuring, "Charleen would have been me if I didn't have a moral compass when I was a kid."

' _And who was your moral compass?_ '

"Isn't it obvious?" She questioned with a small smile. "It was Jim."

* * *

" _When are you coming home?"_

Sylvia heard the irritation in Oswald's voice as though he was directly beside her, and not on the phone. She'd taken the phone call the moment she returned to her club to check on things; Alex Beals, Dagger, and Chilly were playing a game of poker at one of the booths, while Victor Zsasz, who sat at the bar, made light conversation with the newest bartender. Nearest to the door, Jack and Joel were at a booth, testing each other's pain tolerance as they thumbed a knife between their fingers, waiting for the other to stab their own hand accidentally.

Isaac Paddock's meeting had been around seven-thirty this morning; between the rewriting of his will, the plans for their change-of-command, which was taking place later in the day, and her popping in for her usual check-ins with her staff at _Lean On Vee's_ , Sylvia had been blowing off Oswald's insistent phone calls for the last couple of hours.

Finally, after the sixth call, Sylvia answered and was greeted with his agitation immediately.

"I'm not going to be home for several hours," She responded calmly. "I have a few errands to run at the club, and—"

"—How long is _that_ going to take?"

"A few hours."

" _Wonderful_ ," Oswald scoffed.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sylvia demanded. Her own irritation rose to the surface a little too quickly for her wares, but she couldn't stand his overbearing tone sometimes. Especially now, when she had more than a few balls to juggle in the air.

"Oh, nothing," Oswald retorted. "Just the feeling of being stretched in all directions and slowly being buried six feet under the ground is all. Ed is in bed, depressed, and I'm barely keeping my head above these proverbial waters."

"What do you want _me_ to do about that?"

"You can help me tame the media vultures, for one."

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Yes, she understood he was under a lot of pressure. Being the Mayor of a treacherous town, and the Kingpin of a god-forbidden Underworld had its own wounds to be stitched. Add the 'Ed-is-depressed-because-of-what-they-did-to-Isabella' matter into the mix, and, now, Oswald was being pressed so hard, he'd become a diamond by tomorrow.

"Just postpone the interviews until next week."

"That's not good PR."

"I don't give a damn about PR."

"Well, one of us has to," Oswald said sharply. "It's our reputation on the line, after all."

"Yours, mostly. You're the Mayor."

"Precisely my point. I have a meeting with the Commissioner in an hour, and a tour at a middle school an hour after that. Do you _see_ how busy I am currently?"

Sylvia muttered under her breath: "Doesn't sound any busier than your normal routine."

"Passive-aggressive comments spoken in low undertones aren't necessary." He chided.

"I'm just saying, you're not the only one with a full plate."

"Oh, really? Tell me, then. What's going on with _you_?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes. Oswald could be really self-centered when it came to his own agenda, and while she could temper through those obnoxious moments, she was having a harder time than usual doing it this time around. However, she bit her tongue, and said with a forced calm, "Just the usual routine."

"HEY!" One of the Regulars shouted at the comic on the platform. "STOP TELLING THE SAME JOKES!" A beer bottle shattered on the stage.

"I've gotta go, Oswald," Sylvia said briskly. "Crowd control."

"Fine. But we need to talk later."

"Fine."

"Love you."

"I love you too," Sylvia said quickly. She and Oswald hung up at the same time.

Alex glanced in her direction. She made a gesture for him to handle the unruly Regular; at the ready, he stood and made a beeline for the guest, and propped for him to leave the bar. When he didn't, Alex pulled out his Glock, cocked the gun, and placed it against the Regular's face. In a matter of seconds, the man suddenly had his ducks all in a nice little row.

Sylvia chuckled when the Regular sat back down and quietly drank his beer. When he calmed down, Alex put his weapon back in the holster clipped to his belt and casually draped his jacket over it. Sylvia sat down at the bar, smirking when Victor winked at the bartender, who placed a shot of Jack Daniels in front of him. Victor motioned to take out his wallet, but Marcus shyly waved it away, telling him it was on the House.

Sylvia snickered as Victor tossed back the shot.

"Wow," She drawled as the barkeep sauntered his little body over to take the orders of new arrivals.

"What?" Victor asked after he finished scrunching his face. He let out a low whistle: "God _damn_ …That was strong."

"You got an 'on the house' drink from Marcus."

The hitman glanced at her curiously: "Is that his name?"

"Yep. Marcus." Sylvia said smoothly.

"Is that your new hire?"

"He's been here a few weeks."

"Why am I just noticing him?"

"Because I wasn't standing in front of you, maybe." Sylvia returned with a sly smile. "He's Latino, you know."

Victor eyed the bartender with a suave appeal. She noticed that Victor's eyes lowered to the Latino's round butt before they raised back to admire the chiseled jaw and deep brown eyes. The bartender's cheeks were so sharp, they'd cut glass.

"He's single." Sylvia offered freely.

Victor grinned shamelessly: "You know you're the only one for me."

"Maybe. But we have an _open_ relationship, Precious."

"Not interested in love at the moment."

"Who said it had to be love?" Sylvia said airily, leaning her back against the counter. "Everyone can do for a little frisking."

"He's not a cop, Liv."

"You don't have to be a cop to frisk someone."

"Legally, you do."

"Isn't it always better if you don't have permission?"

Victor smirked at her response. Platonic as their relationship was and would forever be, there were times when Sylvia's remarks could titillate the less professional side of his brain. She loved knives, and didn't mind the dirty part of her job—the torture, interrogation, ripping fingernails off those who wouldn't answer their questions—a woman after his own heart. And she had a few scars that made him green with envy. None of which she had easily won, however.

"How's your real marriage?" Victor asked seriously.

"Hanging by a thread," Sylvia joked.

"Judging from your dulcet tones…"

"Oswald is just irritated."

"You're not home enough," Victor guessed.

"Something like that."

"Well, you _have_ been hanging with Paddock enough to rouse a little jealousy."

Sylvia rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time today saying pointedly, "I'm _not_ fucking old men."

"No one said you were, Kiddo."

"So, what is there to be jealous about?"

"Penguin's used to you giving him all your attention, remember?" Victor stated. He pointed to her phone in her hand, adding, "Blowing him off hasn't helped his mood either. Earlier, he asked me to hunt down one of his last people that haven't completely paid their dues—the ones that still owed Falcone when he took over."

"Oswald has his own little ways of venting, I guess. So, when are you doing that?"

"Tonight."

"Take Alex with you," Sylvia said, motioning her head in Alex's direction. "He seems bored."

"I'm no baby sitter, Liv."

"No one is asking you to babysit anyone."

Victor sighed deeply: "He's boring. I'd prefer it if _you_ came with me instead."

"I'm needed here."

"We can do it later tonight."

"I have a prior engagement," Sylvia excused, smiling attentively. "Isaac is knighting me as his successor."

" _So, it's true_."

Sylvia, Victor, Alex, Dagger, the Kabuki twins, and Chilly turned towards the voice that entered the vicinity, unfamiliar at first until they recognized its owner. Jim Gordon strode inside, minding the tougher characters cautiously before briskly passing Dagger and Chilly. When he approached Sylvia, Victor and Alex stiffened simultaneously; Victor's hand touched Sylvia's upper back as an instinctive protective extension.

"It's fine, guys," Sylvia soothed. She gestured for Victor and Alex to leave.

"Come on, Rooster," Victor chuckled. "The Gordons gotta talk."

"Good seeing you again, Jimbo," Alex said good-naturedly, patting Jim on the back.

Jim glared daggers at him but he said nothing in return. Once the two hitmen had left, Sylvia nodded for Jim to talk.

"So, it's true," Jim said unhappily. "You're going to be working _for_ Penguin. As a Don."

"Don _na_." Sylvia corrected, touching his nose with a light, playful boop. "It's the female derivative of a Don."

"Does it matter?"

"In my case, it will."

Jim hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. Disappointment was more than prominent on his face; the lines of his face darkened with a shadow of impending doom.

"You look so sullen about that," Sylvia said as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. "But…" She allowed some hairs to lie on her face in abandon, smoothing them behind her ear a second after. "I'm guessing it's not for the reason I would originally imagine."

"Well, there are a couple reasons, actually."

"Other than the one, which would make me a gangster." Sylvia offered.

"That's one of them," Jim agreed, nodding reluctantly.

"And the other?"

"Personally, I liked it more when you were standing alongside Penguin."

"Oh?"

"You had a little more control over what he did."

"Or maybe it was vice versa." Sylvia reminded, gesturing to herself. "I don't really _stop_ him from doing **anything**."

"You just coerce him into not doing something he might later regret."

"Precisely."

Jim exhaled a scathing noise at her sudden agreement, knowing she was fully aware. It also annoyed him how easily she was ready to enable him. But every now and then, Sylvia could talk Oswald out of doing something that would permit the GCPD to come after him. Oswald had a legitimate prowess to sway Sylvia either way, but every now and then…She had her moments. And she picked her battles carefully. Now that she was no longer sitting at the head of the table on Oswald's level, it would prove to be more of a challenge since he no longer had someone working the ins and outs for him.

"So, you've come to, what? Talk me out of taking my place as Paddock's heir?"

"You're not my whole reason for being here."

"Am I ever?"

Jim quirked an eyebrow at her passive-aggressive response, but he chalked it up to her stress. She had a lot going on. Didn't they all, though?

Sylvia motioned to him: "Why are you here, then, if not for me?"

"I came to ask you about Barnes."

"Captain Barnes?"

"Who else?"

"Ooh, snippy," Sylvia whispered with a smirk.

" _Vee._ "

"Fine. What about him?"

"Have you seen him recently?"

"No."

"Have you spoken to him since the engagement party?"

"Not at all."

"Have you—"

"Am I being interrogated?" Sylvia inquired.

"No…"

"Then stop using that tone."

"I'm not using—"

"—Yes, you _are_." Sylvia scolded. She poked him in the chest, adding, "You _know_ how I hate being interrogated like a common criminal. If you're going to do that, at least arrest me."

"Why would I arrest you?"

"I'm just saying."

"Fine. I'll change my tone."

"Good."

Jim smiled tightly, and asked with a forced polite tone: "When was the last time you saw Barnes?"

"See," Sylvia sighed, gesturing for Marcus to bring a coke. She looked at Jim: "It still sounds like you're interrogating me."

Jim dropped his façade and said disparagingly, "I can't turn it off."

"You're right about that." Sylvia giggled. "Thank you, honey." She smiled kindly at Marcus, who glanced at Jim with a modest grin before retrieving a second glass on Sylvia's request.

After a moment, Marcus placed the glass down and poured Jim a coke.

"I'm not staying long," Jim said politely to Marcus.

"I insist." The young bartender offered, gesturing to the glass. "It's fresh."

When Marcus spoke, his voice was light and fair. With his sharp cheek bones, strong jaw, and dark brown eyes, Marcus could have any person he wanted—be it a tough, dangerous man like Jim Gordon or someone who was swarthy and mysterious as Victor Zsasz. Marcus had a tendency to attract the dangerous types—but he liked it that way, evidently. Jim raised an eyebrow when Marcus winked at him and the detective glanced at Sylvia inquisitively after he did.

"He's my new bartender," Sylvia explained, waving a hand to him.

"How _old_ is he?"

"Twenty-five," She answered. "He's single."

Jim stared at her and said quietly, "Why in the world are you telling me that?"

"Just in general," Sylvia said with a teasing grin. "The boy needs an outlet. He's a Sub, in any case you know anyone looking for a man who's easy on the eyes."

"How do you know _that_?" Jim questioned disbelievingly.

Sylvia shrugged casually: "He told me."

"Alright then." Jim mulled that one over uncomfortably, before he continued onto his questionnaire: "So you haven't seen Barnes."

"No. But here's a question in return. He's your captain."

"That's not a question."

"No, but it was a segue to my question," Sylvia specified with a smile. "He's your captain. So, shouldn't you know where he is?"

"I'm not looking for him."

"Then why are you asking if I've seen him?"

"I'm investigating something."

"Naturally. That _is_ your profession."

"And his location is essential to it."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, "I'm guessing this has something to do with Symon's body being thrown out of a window?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, startled.

"Eyes and ears around Gotham," Sylvia informed as she twirled a finger in the air. "People tell me things. Word is that Symon didn't just fall out of a window. He was pushed. By whom, I must wonder. You've got a lot of suspects at that party. Several of which are Falcone's people."

"Yeah. Symon had enemies."

"He also had friends, from what I gather. But if you're investigating Falcone, you're out of your lane."

"Because he used to be a Don?"

"No. Symon has no enemies with Falcone. Most of his captains just know him because he did minor surgery for their daughters. Facials, shit like that," Sylvia explained, waving her hand dismissively.

"You would know that, wouldn't you?"

"Yep."

Jim chewed on the inside of his cheek: "I'm not looking into Falcone _or_ his people."

Sylvia's eyes narrowed when she realized it: "Jim…"

"I can't talk about it, Vee."

"You think _Barnes_ —"

"Vee."

"His record is clearer than anyone's in Gotham, including yours," Sylvia said skeptically.

"I know."

"And he was a Marine!"

"I know!"

"But you think—"

"—I can't talk about it."

"Why though?"

"Because it's an investigation. And ongoing."

"No. I know that. I just want to know why you think it's him."

Jim gritted his teeth and said dismissively, "Call it 'instinct'. I'll see you later."

"It was great catching up."

"Yeah, yeah. Congratulations on your demotion."

"Suck my dick, Jimmy!" Sylvia called, smirking when he waved back at her as he left the club.

Marcus returned to her side of the bar counter, looking at the untouched glass.

"Did Gordon not like it?" Marcus asked.

"He was in a hurry, Hun."

"That's sad."

"Don't worry. He's still hung up on a doctor," Sylvia comforted, patting his arm. "If you like, I have a very tightly wound, irritated husband back home who's sexually frustrated. So, if no one takes your bait tonight, you've got my blessing to wiggle your worm in front of him and see if he'll bite."

Marcus blushed a deep shade of pink at her sexual implication.

* * *

The ceremony itself was short and simple. There was a small passing of a torch between Isaac to Sylvia, who knelt down on the carpet in front of an open fireplace; Isaac kissed her forehead, a physical way of passing his blessing onward for her to take his place. After she stood, he bowed at the waist; his followers, including Benson, took a knee.

Isaac gestured for Benson to come forth.

Isaac stepped to the wayside so Benson stood in front of Sylvia, who could only meet his eyes by craning her head back. He was at least a foot taller than she. He held out his hand; she placed hers in his palm.

After he kissed the back of it, Benson said in his low baritone voice: "Welcome to the Head of the Family, Donna Gordon."

Sylvia sent Isaac a startled glance.

"Apologies," Benson said gently. "We have to use your maiden name to distinguish your place as the Head of the Family. Using Penguin's last name would be—"

"Weird and redundant. I got it." Sylvia agreed. "It just sounded weirder than what I was expecting. Does that mean you're all a Gordon Crime Family, instead of a Paddock Crime Family?"

"That's the tradition, yes", said Benson coolly.

"Alrighty then. I'm sure that won't be confusing later when people refer to Jim and me when we're not in the same room," She said humorously.

"It's tradition."

"Oh, no…I get it…But for pleasantries, you all can call me 'Lark'. Leave that 'Donna Gordon' business just in this room, 'kay?"

"That's not tradition." Benson stated stoically.

"Well, it's now _my_ tradition. Tradition of casual-ness and informality. That's how this boulder rolls. 'Kay?" Sylvia said with a crooked grin. "Is that cool with you, Benson?"

"Sure." He grunted.

"Fantastic."

Isaac beamed: ' _Let's get ready for dinner_.'

Dinner was served at eight o'clock at night. It took a total of two hours for the ceremony, the dinner, and the after-dinner conversation and party, and when the rest of the crew had finally dispersed, Isaac requested that Sylvia remain. When she did, he handed her a box no larger than the palm of her hand.

It was a white box, dressed in maroon, sheer ribbon.

"What's this?" She asked.

He signed, ' _a gift_.'

She peered at it for only a moment before she untied the ribbon, allowing it to fall to the floor. Tilting open the top, she smiled when she saw what was inside. It was only a piece of paper, but the words inscribed on it were handwritten, notably in Isaac's own penmanship.

A Japanese proverb:

' _Fall seven times,_

 _Stand up eight'_

Reading the words, Sylvia felt her heart pang but with an ache that made her feel affection for Isaac in such a way she'd not felt for someone else except for Mr. Bell.

"This is beautiful, Isaac." She whispered.

Isaac beamed; the wrinkles creased so much that his eyes almost closed. He held out his arms and hugged her. The embrace was warm, and secure. Sylvia wrapped her arms around him, smiling when she felt his fragile hands pat between her shoulder blades.

They broke apart, and she held her fingers to her lips and motioned to him as a 'thank you'. He did the same for 'you're welcome'.

' _I appreciate you telling me what you told me. It can't have been easy. And I know it took a lot of strength to do it. This is my token of appreciation. You are a strong woman. Stronger than anyone, including your husband or your brother, will ever know. But_ ,' Isaac signed understandably. ' _There is a rage inside of you, the likes of which this world has never seen nor has ever known. And it'll be up to you, to never give into that darkness. No matter how freeing it would be_.'

Sylvia smiled, knowing he meant well. He rubbed the back of his head.

' _Now forgive me, but I should be heading to bed_.' He signed with a humor. ' _This old man is tired_.'

He took his leave, kissing her forehead. She smiled sweetly at him when he did, and he headed upstairs.

Sylvia was about to leave, getting to her feet. That was until she glanced at the window, having that feeling of being watched. And she was right. Staring through the window was Charleen; her auburn curls fell to her shoulders in more than tangled wisps. Grime and dirt covered the teenager's knees and face.

Sylvia steadily walked towards the sliding, peer-through door. Her eyes never leaving Charleen's. Meanwhile, the teenager stared back at her, almost as though she was begging her not to leave her outside. Her blue eye matched the green one in pain.

Slowly, Sylvia held the door handle, sliding it open.

"Charleen." Sylvia said softly.

" _Hi_."

The girl's tone had been no politer than the last time they had spoken. Granted, the last time they'd spoken was the same time that Charleen had screamed at her, and had slapped her across the face without even thinking of her own personal welfare.

 _How like me, indeed_ , thought Sylvia.

"Is Isaac here?" Charleen questioned; she shoved Sylvia's hip so she could make her way inside.

"He just headed up to bed."

"Well, I wanna talk to him."

"He's sleeping."

" **Then wake him up** ," Charleen ordered.

Sylvia stared at her, placing the box on the countertop: "I'm not going to do that."

"Then I'll do it."

With that said, Charleen headed towards the stairs. Sylvia grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Feeling someone grab onto her forearm, Charleen wielded back her fist to knock her lights out, but Sylvia caught her hand in her own palm.

"GET OFF ME!" Charleen shrieked. "GET OFF!"

"When you start to calm down, I will." Sylvia said patiently.

In spite of Sylvia's own strength, she found it a little discombobulating trying to disarm a teenager whose own strength had been acquired through street fights and barbarism. Charleen pushed Sylvia away and when she did, Sylvia didn't try to come for her. The teenager simply glared daggers back at her, furious for having been touched at all.

"What the fuck is your problem!" Charleen snapped. "I ain't done nothing to you!"

"You're barging inside, unannounced, and you're trying to wake up an old man who needs his sleep." Sylvia said curtly.

At her tone, Charleen cringed, crossing her arms grumpily.

Still, Sylvia softened her voice, observing her: "What happened to you?"

"Nothing!"

"Your knees are dirty."

"So? It's the streets. It's the Flea. Shit's always dirty there."

"What happened there?" Sylvia asked, pointing to the smudge on Charleen's face.

At her inquiry, Charleen quickly brushed the dirt off her face, trying to hide whatever it was that had been there. Sylvia grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away.

"You've been hit." Sylvia said incredulously.

"Stop fucking touching me!" Charleen snapped, pushing her away. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you touch _everyone_ that comes near you, huh?"

"Who hit you?"

"No one."

"It's still fresh. That was recent."

"So what!" Charleen snarled. "This ain't nothing. All of us street kids get slapped around like we're nothing. What does it matter to you if we do! It doesn't matter to anyone else."

"Except it matters to Isaac. Is that why you came to him tonight? To tell him what happened?"

"No. I came to tell him that…"

Charleen had begun to say it, but then she realized she was talking more to Sylvia than she was to Isaac. It was as though Sylvia had put her under a spell. Realizing this, Charleen frowned deeply, and spat at her feet.

"I'm done talking to you! I wanna talk to _Isaac_."

"Isaac is—"

"FINE!" Charleen shouted. She kicked the kitchen counter, then the glass door, leaving a smudge of a footprint there. "Whatever! He's sleeping. Fine…Fuck…I didn't want to talk to him anyway!" She started walking away, but then she turned on her heel. "You know what, ' _Lark'_. 'Sylvia'. 'Donna Gordon'. _Whatever_ they call you. You may think you're gonna replace Isaac, but there ain't replacing someone like him."

"I know that," Sylvia said lightly.

"And if you think you can, then you don't know shit about him."

"Are you angry because I'm replacing him, or are you angry because you think he'll abandon you like the rest of the world has?"

Charleen looked murderous. And in a quick second, she reached down into the pocket of her jeans, pulled out a switch blade, and lunged for her. Immediately, Sylvia caught her hand that held the knife, then grabbed Charleen, pushing her down on her stomach. Her hands were snatched and pinned behind her back; Charleen cried loudly when Sylvia yanked the switchblade out of her hands, throwing it a few feet away from her.

Sylvia did not scream at her. She didn't command for her to calm down. Instead, she let Charleen try to fight her, scream at her, and struggle. When Charleen realized she could not get out of Sylvia's vice-like grip, she started whimpering and her forehead thudded against the carpet in defeat.

"I am _not_ your enemy, Charleen." Sylvia said breathlessly. "But if you come at me with a knife again, I will be. And you do not want me as your enemy. And neither do I."

"But you arrrrrre!" Charleen cried. "You're taking Isaac away from me!"

"I'm not doing anything like that."

"You're replacing him!"

"I'm not doing anything he did not already want me to do."

Charleen shrieked, " _GET OFF OF ME! GET OFFFFF!"_

"I am going to let you go," Sylvia said firmly. "But if you try to lunge at me, I _will_ put you in this exact position again. Do you hear me?"

"WHATEVER! JUST GET OFF ME!"

There was a shuffle of footsteps and Sylvia saw Benson in her peripheral vision. He was dressed down in a pair of sweat pants, and nothing else. The muscles on that man…and those muscles held a gun in between his palms.

Sylvia shook her head and he faded back into the shadows. After he did, she stood up and Charleen scrambled to her feet, glaring at her.

"You can hate me all you want," Sylvia said calmly. "You can wish me dead. But you know I am not the one responsible for Isaac's decisions. His decisions are his alone. And I know you think I'm your enemy, since I'm the one who's taking his place."

"You don't _know_ anything about me."

"I _do_ know. I was like you at your age. Angry. Bitter…violent. Still am."

"You're not violent. You haven't killed anyone in a while. You don't think what I think. You cannot see what I see! _You don't feel what I feel_. No one does!" Charleen cried furiously. "NO ONE DOES! And no one understands **me**!"

"That's where you're wrong. We are more alike than you know."

"We are _nothing_ alike, you stupid bitch. The things I've done to survive…No one cares about that."

"Some do."

"What, people like you?"

"No. Not people like me. Just me." Sylvia insisted. She held out her hand. "You can talk to me. Trust me. You can't shoulder your struggles alone."

"I'm not alone. Isaac helps me. And I'd talk to him, if you weren't trying to stop me! He's the only one that cares about me."

"I care."

Charleen shook her head: "How can you care for someone you've only just met? That doesn't make any fucking sense. You're a fucking liar."

She grabbed her switchblade from the floor and placed it in her jeans.

"I don't care who you are or what you think you know. But you're stupid for being here. And no matter what you think of yourself or how much you think of yourself, you're nothing. It doesn't matter what anyone else here thinks."

In a single whip of her hair, Charleen sprinted out of the house.

* * *

Ed was depressed. That is what Oswald said on the phone earlier. And she could believe it.

Sylvia watched Ed sleep in his room only for a moment before she crept inside, picking up the bottle of whiskey and the glass beside it. He'd gone through a fifth of the bottle; the result: Edward Nygma snoring under the covers, his glasses still on his face, set askew.

She gingerly took and folded his spectacles, placing them on the end table where the whiskey had originally been. Steadily, Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed, folding one leg underneath herself so she could ever so lightly tuck the blankets more comfortably around him.

"You and Oswald," Sylvia muttered, placing the whiskey bottle on the ground. "Something happens to a woman and the both of you are two finger-lengths from drowning in alcohol."

Her fingers brushed his bangs off his face then ghosted over his cheeks with butterfly-softness. It was only at that moment where Ed stirred from his alcohol-induced deep sleep, opening his eyes to squint as he tried to assemble the visage amidst the blackness in the room. With the moonlight all but shrouded by the gray dark clouds, he couldn't quite make her out.

"Liv…?"

"It's me, Riddles." Sylvia cooed softly.

He held her hand that still remained on his face, his thumb stroked the back of it. Half-asleep, Ed wasn't much for conversation at the moment. Even in this state of disrepair, he was still grateful to see a friendly face. Sylvia leaned forward, kissing his forehead. He mumbled a quiet content 'mm'; still, she heard the underlying tone of pain just beneath the surface.

"How're you doing?" Sylvia whispered.

Ed groaned, rubbing his forehead: "I've felt better."

"I bet."

"Liv…"

"Hmm?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but his words faltered for whatever reason. He looked her up and down briefly and said instead, "Are you wearing a dress?"

"Had another meeting with Paddock," Sylvia explained away.

"How'd that go?"

"It was and—at the same time— _wasn't_ pointless drivel."

Ed smiled at her casual way of putting the political side of the Underworld bluntly, but the small crack of humor was then iced in dullness. Not without his gratitude. Sylvia was trying to cheer him up, put some pep in his step—no doubt Oswald had conveyed to her the dreariness of his current attitude.

Oswald had tried to be more understanding of his plight; he'd even permitted the artist to put a rendering of himself in Oswald's painting. However, the news coming to light that Isabella had been murdered created a void in his heart that needed to be filled with vengeance.

"Isabella was murdered," Ed croaked. He felt that he needed to tell her personally.

"That's what Oz said."

"It was Butch."

"Butch?"

"Yes. _Butch_."

"Why do you think that?"

"I exposed him as the Red Hood's gang leader," Ed said groggily, rubbing his face. "It's clear he wants revenge for his exile. Tabitha is clearly in on it." He started to sit up. "I want—"

"Shhh…." Sylvia hushed, encouraging him to lay back down.

Ed's eyebrows quirked upwards, not in so much surprise as he was intrigued. This was the soft side Oswald normally had the privy to see. Her motherly nature, such gentleness. Appeasing her and also because he was really tired, Ed lied down, looking at Sylvia from his back. She remained sitting on the edge of the bed, although he detected the unspoken order to remain rested by the firmness of her hand on his chest.

"I want to get them back for what they did," Ed declared. "It's the least I can do."

"The least you can do, Riddles, is _sleep_."

"You can't stop me."

"I'm not trying to stop you," Sylvia reassured. "But if I know you as well as I think I do, you're a lightweight and you've had enough." She indicated the bottle on the ground. "So, for now, revenge will have to wait. And you, Mr. Nygma, are going to sleep it off."

She started to leave, but Ed quickly grabbed her wrist. At his sudden retraction, Sylvia turned expectantly to him. When he tugged a little, she approached and sat back down beside him. He looked at her with the biggest, puppy dog eyes. Even in the dark bedroom, Sylvia could see their chocolate brown irises beckoning.

"Did you like her?" He asked.

"Who?"

"Isabella."

Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek, and finally she said, "No. Not really."

"How could you not have liked her?"

"She wasn't my type."

Ed cracked a grin at her humor. This seemed to satisfy whatever it was that he urgently needed answering as he relaxed into the bed. Sylvia leaned forward, kissing his cheek. Once he felt her mouth on his face, Ed turned his head so her lips fell on his. It surprised her at first, especially when his head lifted up to deepen the kiss. To his benefit and pleasant shock, she returned it.

"You taste like grapes." Ed mumbled with a small smile.

"You taste like whiskey." Sylvia chortled. "And you smell like it too. Go to sleep, Ed."

"Wait, wait, wait."

She looked at him readily.

"There's something I want to say to you."

"What is it?"

Ed furrowed his eyebrows as though he was trying to filter out the words and weeds in his mind. As though he feared his hesitation might dull her expectation, he quickly sat up and took her forearm, urging her to remain seated as he tried to explain what he wanted to articulate. After a moment, he groaned in frustration.

"Take your time." Sylvia soothed.

Ed sighed, rubbing his eyes. Finally, he said, "There's something I wanted to say. Earlier. About what happened between us…all three of us."

"Oh?"

"That night when we were together…I mean, do you feel any different?"

"'Different'?"

Ed nodded.

Sylvia shrugged, "I don't mind being in the same room with the both of you if you're asking about my comfort."

"I just can't get that night out of my mind."

"Well, I'm not exactly forgettable in the sack." Sylvia teased.

Ed grinned handsomely at her, knowing that was true.

He'd never truly forget how Isabella had made him feel, but Sylvia had made him feel other things—the forbidden parts of himself that were too dangerous for the librarian had been revealed to Sylvia and she had completely accepted him, _begged_ for it, even. That, and how Oswald seemed more than willing to…

Ed slowly lied back down. His head throbbed, and further reminisce gave the sensation of a tentacle tightly wrapping itself around his skull. As he did, Sylvia leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

"It all seems like a dream," He whispered. Thinking of the past couple of events, he added darkly, "And a nightmare. How can it be both?"

Sylvia brushed her fingers over his cheeks, then placed her index and middle finger over his mouth so he'd stop talking. Ed sleepily smiled at her gesture; his eyelids became heavier and heavier as he listened to her softly hum a lullaby unknown to him. Once he was snoring, Sylvia grinned widely, tucking him in and then grabbed the whiskey bottle and glass on her way out.

She wasn't surprised to see Oswald lingering in the hallway, just outside of Ed's bedroom door. He'd been in the kitchen prior to Sylvia returning home; instead of greeting him as she'd done naturally, Sylvia had receded up the stairs to check on Ed. As she closed the door to Ed's bedroom, Sylvia inclined her head to the side, a nonverbal hint for Oswald to follow.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Sylvia placed the emptied glass in the sink and the whiskey bottle on the counter top.

"You're home late." Oswald noted.

She glanced at his overall disposition. His arms were crossed; the muscles in his jaw and neck torqued with an obvious irritation; his eyes alone could convey his annoyance with her tardiness. Calmly, Sylvia rinsed the empty glass, and poured a drink of her own; he followed her into the Meeting Room.

"I had another meeting." She explained it away just as she did with Ed, although her humor was lacking in embellishment.

"And how many more late meetings are we due for?"

Sylvia tossed back the Irish whiskey, feeling it sting the back of her throat as well as her sinuses.

Oswald stood behind a chair, his hands caressing the back of it with a taut grip.

She placed the bottle and glass on the table, pouring another shot: "You're awfully passive-aggressive tonight. Ed's the one going through a tragedy; what's _your_ excuse?"

Oswald frowned, scooting out the chair.

Pointing to it, he commanded gruffly: "Have a seat."

Sylvia rolled her eyes to the ceiling. He pulled out another chair for himself; she sat opposite of him.

"You've had five meetings with Isaac Paddock," Oswald stated crisply. "In the last month."

"Well, taking over a Crime Family _does_ take time and communication."

"Be that as it may—"

"—Oswald, your Chief-of-Staff is going through something terrible. So, I know you're swamped at the office currently, but it's just something you're going to have to deal with until Ed is able to get over Isabella." Sylvia said dismissively.

"Yes, you're right. I _am_ extremely busy without Ed taking on his obligations, but you're the First Lady of Gotham. Everything that he does, _you_ can do too."

"Point taken, but Isaac Paddock is—"

"Dying, but not dead. Not yet." Oswald reminded coldly. Irritably, he gestured to the door indicating Isaac. "That means he is more than capable of tending to his own beat until he _is_ sitting on Death's door."

"When _you're_ dying, I'll be sure to remind you of this conversation when _you_ want to take a down day."

"He's taken _several_ down days," Oswald said with a tight smile. "It's been a 'down fortnight', even, and he's had more than enough meetings to introduce you to the Family—by the way, they already know who you are so, really, there's not even a necessity to occupy as much of your time as he already has."

"What do you want from him?" Sylvia questioned curtly. "He's just trying to make sure his loose ends are all tied."

"I don't care what he's trying to do. I need you _here_." Oswald retorted irately. "Between Ed taking his time to go after Butch and Tabitha—"

"—He's not even found them yet—"

"—He will. And when he does, he's going to take time off from the office to get his affairs in order. So that's why I need you here. I have conferences, meetings, tours—"

"—Yes, all of which you've been managing to attend on your own."

Oswald frowned deeply, his eyes brightening with his swelling temper: "The reason I've been able to keep up with everything on my _very_ tight schedule is because Ed takes the time to actually plan everything. Now he's going to be preoccupied doing whatever it is that he'll need to do—"

"—You mean, 'getting closure'—"

"Like I said: 'Whatever'. That means you'll be taking over in his stead. That's not an order, by the way. That's me just asking for a little compromise on your part. I don't think I'm asking for a lot."

Sylvia licked her lips after she put back another shot, and looked at him with a steady gaze. She shrugged, saying, "No, you're right. You're _not_ asking for much."

"Thank you!" Oswald scoffed. "It's _so_ nice to be validated from time-to-time!"

Sylvia stood, giving the table a once over before she crossed Oswald's path. He watched her disdainfully bend forward so she looked at him on the same eye-level.

"After all this is said and done, maybe _you_ need to take a down day," Sylvia stated, glancing him up and down. "You're getting a little high-strung yourself."

"Well, _someone_ has to be in control." Oswald hissed. "If that's not going to be you…"

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders carelessly. She carried her glass into the other room. He followed her, watching her sit on the couch, throwing her feet up.

He stood behind the armchair, his hands on the back of it.

"Or maybe you're more than happy not ruling Gotham anymore," Oswald stated.

"Whatever gave you _that_ idea," Sylvia returned sarcastically. She sipped from the glass, placing it on the coffee table, adding, "From the very beginning, I told you I never wanted to rule Gotham. At the same time, I can't _not_ rule anything. Isaac brought that to my attention, actually."

"Well, at least he's doing something productive."

"He's stepping down out of the best interest of his Family."

" _Noted_."

"Why the hell are you are being so snippy with me?" said Sylvia indignantly. "I told you I wouldn't be home for hours."

"Again. 'Noted'."

"So, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to take a little accountability for the role of which you are still irrevocably in charge!" Oswald said venomously. "The moment you started the process of being Paddock's successor, you've become lackadaisical in other facets of your life."

" _No_ ," Sylvia corrected fiercely. "I've become more involved in those personal factions of my life, some of which—and I know this might surprise you—don't revolve around _you_." She pointed to him heatedly, adding, "Don't you understand? I'm still a club owner—I have to make sure everything runs accordingly."

"You're—"

"—I'm still the First Lady of Gotham—I'm representing you and the mayoral office to the best of my ability. And I'm now taking on Isaac's role too!"

"And where am I exactly in this _innocuous_ agenda of yours!" Oswald demanded.

Sylvia rubbed her eyes, exhaling irritably. Her head was pounding, and ultimately, she was ready to go to bed. But undoubtedly, he'd follow her there too so as to complete the circle of arguing in every room. But at this point…

"Fuck it." Sylvia hissed. "I'm going to bed."

She stood up, drinking the rest of the whiskey.

"We aren't finished talking." Oswald reminded.

"Then you can keep talking. To yourself. I'm going to bed." She said blatantly.

Just as she passed him, he took her arm. She pulled it out of his grip. Whatever inkling that Oswald possessed was beyond logical when he grabbed her forearm again. She didn't want to hurt him, but at the same time, she no longer wanted to talk.

Sylvia squeezed between the couch and him. He pushed her against it, to keep her there.

"Sylvia—"

"I'm done arguing with you tonight," Sylvia quipped. "Not _everything_ revolves around you, Oswald. And if you think it does, you can go fuck yourself tonight. How's that?"

Oswald rolled his eyes when she started to push past him. He pulled her to him; out of her own willpower, Sylvia forced herself to remain calm, only permitting him because of this. Her back brushed against the couch; one hand held her wrist; the other pressed against her collar bone.

"What did you just say to me?"

Sylvia's ears perked at his tone. Low, quiet…and dangerous.

"Oh, I know you heard me."

"I hope you don't mean that."

She leaned forward ever so slightly.

"And what if I do?" Sylvia challenged.

She searched his eyes, waiting to see something she'd never seen before. And she did. There was indignation from being insulted. There was anger for the way she talked to him and his feelings surrounding her obligations that divided her attention away from him. But mostly, there was that familiar desire to command something or someone that didn't fully respect his authority. And the latter shone brighter than the rest of the other desires in his aquamarine eyes.

The hand on her collar bone slowly lifted to her neck, his thumb stroking up the side of her throat.

He wouldn't harm her in this life or the next. Not in such a way that she would consider it to be abuse. Not intentionally, at least. Sylvia meant too much to him to allow his anger to objectify him so physically, no matter how great the injustice.

"What would you do to me if I meant what I said?" Sylvia dared. Her free hand lifted to the one nearest to her neck, making another attempt to move him aside.

However, Oswald stayed right where he was.

"You're incorrigible." He breathed. "No one in Gotham is allowed to address me like—"

A derisive laugh escaped her: "I'm not 'no one in Gotham'. You tend to forget that frequently these days." She leaned forward just a little so that her lips brushed tauntingly against his own. "Maybe _you_ should rethink how you should be addressing **me**."

She stepped away from the couch, striding through the hall towards the stairs that led to the bedroom. Oswald's eyes flashed dangerously, but her challenge flipped a switch in him. That baiting familiarity, like a bad habit whispering into his ear, swirling around in his belly. He could barely defy the impulse to follow her there, and stop her from entreating to her destination, grabbing a handful of her hair so he pushed her back against the wall.

He breathed quickly, heavily. His hand that held her hair slackened its grip, wondering if he'd already breached his own gentleman's code.

Her fire, that ferocity. Even in the face of her insolence, he had to admire it. Sylvia was never an easy person to handle, but that was one of the reasons Oswald was attracted to her. If he had trouble domesticating her, so would any other man or woman. And, on her better days, she only ever really listened to one person, and that didn't include her own kin. He felt remorse for his brutish impulses until he heard her condescend to him.

"What, is that it? Is this your idea of a Friday Night fight?"

Oswald growled, pulling down the same handful of her hair so she let out a gasp; the instant sensation of pain weakened her knees and it was perfect amount of leverage so Oswald roughly turned her around and shoved her face-forward to the wall.

She weakly laughed, but an instant shiver crept down her spine in tingling anticipation when his voice breathed against her ear, "You're trying to contest me, aren't you, Pigeon?"

"No contest _here_ ," Sylvia groaned. "But…" She tilted her head so she could meet his eyes. "You forget you're not the _only_ one with power in this city."

He didn't move for a moment, almost as though he was just realizing this as well. Then Sylvia smiled when she felt the grasp on her hair tighten, pulling her head back just a little so he could kiss the soft skin between her jaw and ear. He gazed at her in contemplation, but Sylvia could see how quickly his breathing patterns had changed; how his eyes briefly wandered to her lips and her neck.

"Honestly," Sylvia uttered, "Where it concerns _me,_ I feel like you need to be taken down a peg or two."

"Is that a fact."

"Not a fact." She murmured. "A suggestion."

Oswald released her hair and she let out a quiet sigh of relief. He kept her pinned against the wall, her back to him. His hands mirrored each other, settling on her hips. Slowly, they rubbed down her legs until he caught the hem of her dress, lifting it so her thighs and curves were exposed. As though he tested her temper and her boundaries tonight.

Sylvia started to move, to resist him.

"Stay still." Oswald said sharply. "And put your hands on the wall."

She clicked her tongue insolently but did as he commanded. Just as she obeyed, she felt one of Oswald's hands slip between her legs from behind, his fingers ever so softly rubbing the material of her panties against her petals, and over her clit.

She wasn't sure what he was planning, but Sylvia wasn't too proud to resist trying to enjoy it.

He teased and rubbed her clit through her panties. The cotton material ghosting and slipping between the lips of her sex too easily; in her growing desire, they felt rough. The tip of his middle finger rubbed her clit in slow circles. Her heat radiated from her panties as her clit slowly became swollen. Her shameless moans slowly escaped her as he increased the speed at which he manipulated her lust. Then he suddenly stopped, turning her around. Weak in the knees, Sylvia managed to do so.

"Oswald…?"

Sylvia was perplexed, a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when she felt his hard-on slightly nudge against her thigh, notably on purpose. He kissed her briefly; Sylvia eagerly returned it. But just as she moved forward, Oswald retracted.

"What…?"

Oswald sighed in satisfaction: "Well, this was fun. But now I'm going to do what _you_ suggested earlier."

"And that is?" Sylvia questioned.

"I'm going to go 'fuck myself'. Good night, Pigeon." He sent her a cheeky smile.

Sylvia watched him turn and head up the stairs, although a little humorously since he had an extra leg to work with as he ascended. Her own sexual frustration amplified by ten as he left her wanting.


	59. Burgers, Targets, and Discussions

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Burgers, Targets, and Discussions

Author's Note: Here's another chapter, my Lovelies!

* * *

It was midday, a quarter to twelve. Oswald was finishing up eating lunch when he heard Sylvia's boom box blaring from where he sat. This was a notable cue that she was either practicing a dance for an upcoming venue or she was having an all-out sparring match with her twin sidekicks. She'd become most involved with those two, Oswald noticed—more than she'd ever been with any of her other loyal subjects.

Curious to the occasion, and hearing music, he ventured onto the patio.

As he suspected, Jack and Joel Kabuki, and Sylvia were outside. Both men were dressed down to black sweats and bare feet; Sylvia wore black leggings and a spaghetti-stringed burgundy top, which clung to her every curve, revealing the soft edges of her lean physique. Oswald found himself smiling a little, noticing the twins had a chiseled figure of their own.

The tune blasting on the boom box was an unknown song to Oswald; this song was not to his classical tastes, and from what he gathered from the lyrics, they were far from modest.

Jack and Joel, identical right down to the last flexed muscle, stood on either side of Sylvia, mirroring her every tilt, hip thrust and gyration; at one point, each twin grabbed a leg and she was tossed a few feet in the air, caught, and then wrapped around them once before she slithered down the floor to the music's last beat. Evidently, Oswald had caught the last bit of it, but he was impressed in general.

He gave a respectful round of applause as Sylvia praised Jack for his dexterity and Joel for his stamina. They both grinned widely at her words, knowing they'd earned it.

"Remember," Sylvia said, touching her head as a point. "There's going to be fire around us. Don't throw me up as high."

"I feel like there needs to be more involved," Joel said breathlessly.

"Example?" Sylvia asked, taking a towel from the patio chair and wiping her face.

"Like swords or something," Jack offered in Joel's place. "To add a slight bit more danger."

"The risk of being burned isn't enough for you?"

They caught her tease. Oswald watched them with subtle entertainment.

"Too bad we don't have more people," Jack said distractedly, gathering a towel for himself as he threw it over his neck, using one end to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "The more numbers we had, the better it'd look."

"Well, it helps that you two are twins," Sylvia reminded. "Having the both of you is like an illusion. And I do love illusions."

"Sounds like we got our work cut out for us then," said Joel, "but I still think we could use another element."

"You find that element, you let me know. Otherwise, you'll just have to settle for being singed. Take a lap," Sylvia told them, gesturing to the yard.

"After you," Jack challenged his brother.

"Bitch, I can outrun your ass in _minutes_."

"I can do it in seconds!"

"Oh yeah!"

"Yeah!" Jack said with a wider smile. "Need proof? Let's go on three."

"Fine. On three."

"One. Two…" Jack sprinted off towards what the 'start' line was. Basically, it was the beginning of a trail run.

"Hey, fucker! YOU CHEATED!" Joel sprinted after him, running barefoot like his counterpart.

Sylvia watched him catch up to Jack, not before he tackled him and they started running around the yard (a good three acres was inherited to Oswald after his father's passing). Sylvia smiled when Oswald handed her a bottle of water from the pack underneath a chair.

"You have a performance coming up?" He asked conversationally, sitting down on a stone bench provided more as decoration in the yard than as furniture—it suited him though.

They both lifted their eyes to the whooping and hollering heard some yards away in the field.

"Are they coming back?" asked Oswald with a quiet snicker.

"They're getting their energy out today," said Sylvia, before drinking from her bottle of water. "They can't be expected to sit still at a meeting with the other Heads of the Five Families without getting all of it out prior to it."

Oswald squinted, saying, "It looks like they're taking a break."

Jack and Joel strolled back.

"What the hell were you all doing?" Sylvia asked curiously, seeing how their bodies were covered in dirt and grime, and some leaves stuck to their bodies due to their sweat.

"We got into a bit of a scuffle," Jack explained away. "It's okay though."

"Feeling good?" Sylvia asked.

"Yep," the twins answered eagerly.

"Still ready to exercise?"

"You're not done _yet_?" Oswald questioned, startled.

"No. We were rehearsing when you came out," Sylvia said nonchalantly.

"It was only thirty minutes," Jack offered.

Joel disagreed: "Ya stupid, it was an hour!"

"Well, I lose track of time when I'm having fun."

"Glad you were having fun," Sylvia drawled, smirking at them, standing to her feet. She placed her hands on her hips.

"Oh shit, I know that smile," Jack groaned.

Oswald's eyes darted between the twins and he jumped a little when Sylvia shouted, "ON YOUR FACES!"

"Fuck, man…" Joel winced as he got down to do the first set of push-ups.

"Just shut up, and do it," Jack groaned. "It'll be over in an hour before you know it."

Oswald pleasantly watched the twins follow Sylvia's orders. Pushups, sit-ups, reverse crunches, burpees, mountain climbers, and she drilled them until Jack and Joel were begging for it to end.

"On your feet." Sylvia commanded.

"Fuck…If she tells us to run, I'm gonna die," Jack laughed weakly.

Joel stumbled to the balls of his feet, bringing his brother up with him.

"Go take a shower, fellas." Sylvia said, patting them both on the shoulders.

"We're done?" Jack and Joel expressed the same surprise.

"Yep. I'm feeling lenient."

"Oh, thank god…" Jack breathed, slowly getting to his knees. "I thought we were going to have to run again."

"I'm about to change my mind," Sylvia warned with a mischievous smile.

"Go, man!" Joel snapped, slapping his brother on the head.

The two of them jogged inside the mansion. Sylvia looked after them before she turned to Oswald, who watched her with fascination.

"How often?" He asked.

"Three times a week," Sylvia returned knowingly. "They normally run with me at the crack of dawn."

"And you decided to change things up by doing this in the afternoon?"

"Kinda. Just wanted to spice it up a little."

"Huh."

Sylvia sat down on the bench beside him. She leaned forward a little, smirking at Oswald, who peered at her suspiciously.

"A little spontaneity is good for the soul, Love."

"And you call that spontaneous? Changing your exercise regimen."

"Fine then…What about this?"

Her lips just barely grazed his bottom lip; her tongue teased the outer edge. His eyes closed when her mouth pressed harder against his; the softest pressure with the darkest intentions.

Oswald could feel his heart flutter when he felt her tongue slide along the line where his lips met. His stomach lurched with the contact of her hand on his face, her thumb lined along his jaw and applied a downward pressure so his mouth opened a little; with the invitation, Sylvia slipped her tongue inside to find his own.

He returned every kiss, every touch. Not much had changed between them as husband and wife, but he felt the dynamic change in the course that he was officially her superior and she, his subordinate. It seemed as though she was tracking it as well; she exhaled a sound of satisfaction when he brought his hand to her neck, pulling her gently to him in the force of a small tug to feel her closer to him.

"Where's the venue?" Oswald asked, referring to her upcoming performance.

"It's in the Lo Boyz territory." Sylvia explained. She caught her breath. "There's a manager there. He has big enough venue—some opera, large seating, large stage…"

"And he's paying you?" Oswald asked. He heard her giggle without any dark undertones.

"Of course, he is."

"What is his security like?"

"Ten able-bodied men with guns. Four in the front, four in the back, two around the stage. I personally spoke to his security consultant. The guy's a little mouthy, but he's competent."

"And other than the twins, who else are you bringing with you?"

"All that security," She said coyly, "And you still don't think I'll be safe."

"You're a gang leader, Pigeon." Oswald said patiently, referring to her new role as a Donna. "You're in the same position as Maroni or Falcone. Plenty of people want to be in your position."

"And that wasn't the case when I was Gotham's acting Queen?"

He heard the humor in her voice. She was rightly in a better mood that he had seen her. Granted, dancing, fighting, and singing were her mood outlets. Well, excluding himself.

"Ignoring all the technicalities, you _are_ still Gotham's Queen. I'm its King. The situation speaks for itself."

"I'm not responsible for the city. Or its Underworld."

"Not anymore."

She pulled the ponytail out of her hair; it fell around her shoulders in tangled curls. Sylvia rubbed her head, sighing in relief when she tussled her locks, feeling the pain of her roots trying to stay in their accustomed position while she massaged her scalp.

"I don't know how you do it, baby."

"What did I tell you a year ago?"

"At what point in time?"

"When you were still pregnant. And you were worrying about the Families, Butch, and Tabitha."

"You said for me to worry about Csilla, and let you worry about everything else," Sylvia recalled. "But that's easier said than done. Especially now. I may get tired of worrying about what everyone is trying to do, what they're saying, how they perceive me, and see how stressed being both the Mayor and the Underworld's primary ruler does to you. But at the same time, I can't let it go."

"And this is coming from someone who just stepped down to be Paddock's successor." Oswald said coolly.

"You sound upset by that, but you and I both know it was the only option. Paddock's Family has no other better ruler; either they don't talk or they don't listen—some of the Hearing folk don't listen, but it's out of their own ignorance or insolence. I'm not sure which."

"Hmm."

He watched her wipe the sweat off the back of her neck, and rub the towel over her chest. For all his efforts of teasing her the other night, taking care of himself later in bed, Oswald felt a little hot and bothered, seeing her this way.

She rubbed the back of her neck, lowering her head so she could get a better angle. She moaned quietly; the sound stifled in her throat. It made Oswald's heart skip a beat.

Sylvia said lightly, "I have to get ready." She leaned into him again, giving him another kiss before she stood and headed back into the mansion to take a shower.

Her display of affection was always in generous doses. For having teased and left her hanging the other night, Oswald wondered why she was being overtly affectionate now. Did she have something to prove? Was she teaching him a lesson? Or did her proclivity for dancing and bossing about her minions give her that much gratification to shower him in affection that he likely hadn't deserved in the past couple of weeks?

It annoyed Oswald to no end. And thinking on it was just frustrating in itself, when he knew the real reason: Sylvia showed her affection, how much she cared for him, regardless of how irritating he'd been for the last few days. Her love for him was unconditional, just like his mother's.

He'd forget that Sylvia didn't have to be as overly affectionate as she was. Comparatively, Ed wasn't by any means.

Then again…Sylvia was an open book, while Ed was clearly more complicated. Or maybe…

Oswald sighed in resignation, heading into the mansion to make a cup of coffee. He didn't care for the taste too much these days, but he'd started drinking a lot more of it when he needed to have his clarity. And for this meeting in particular, he'd definitely need it.

* * *

Alex and Victor saddled up in a car with the latter of the two in the driver's seat. They were just about to head towards their first unsuspecting target before the car pulled into the parking lot. Alex looked at the hitman, puzzled.

"Why the hell are we here?" He inquired, glancing back at the building. "This isn't the guy's place."

"Liv mentioned you were very perceptive," Victor sighed, rolling his eyes. He thumbed the restaurant behind him, adding, "I don't like working on an empty stomach."

"It's only one target."

"It's technically three."

Alex furrowed his eyebrows, trying to understand what he meant without having to question it. Victor gathered too quickly why Sylvia found his oblivious nature a little irritating to be around 24/7. After a moment of waiting for Alex to put two-and-two together, Victor shook his head in obvious amusement before he opened the door, getting out of the car and headed inside the restaurant without another word.

The two of them had different styles of professional attire.

Victor preferred dark exterior with bright, shiny interior. He wore a charcoal-gray Armani suit, one of which he bought with the money Sylvia predisposed to him (her insistent nature was too exhausting to dismiss) prior to his departure to cross off two items from her agenda. Underneath his waist coat, he carried his crossed-back holster straps, which carried two of his babies. Unknown to anyone else, he'd named each of his Glocks as they were precious to him as any one of his scars.

He wore the holster straps over a shimmering bright, neon blue vest with a black, crackle pattern. He had enough confidence in his stealth and speed to wear such a color in the blackest of nights.

Alexander Beals ('Rooster', as he always preferred to be addressed) wore dark colors all around. Navy blue suit, ebony vest, gray tie—so boring.

Victor casually held open the door for Alex to enter first. A gentleman's code, it was presumed to be, but honestly, he preferred to be on Alex's back rather than in front of him. He felt safer that way until he could acquire a more reliable trust in his new partner.

At this time of night, the restaurant was nearly dead. It was open for twenty-four hours, and it was consistently understaffed, working with a skeleton crew of three people: One person to take the order and work the counter; the second to cook and fry whatever it was the customer desired; and a third to clean the mess.

"What'll it be?" The cashier said monotonously.

Alex immediately frowned at the lack of customer service; meanwhile, Victor seemed unaffected. He made a gesture to the cashier that the two of them were still deciding; in return, the cashier looked a little annoyed by their delay, but otherwise remained quite content to fiddle faddle in the back, talking loudly to his two other counterparts about whatever sport he was interested in discussing.

"He should be fired," Alex muttered, crossing his arms.

Victor glanced at him: "If he bothers you that much, kill him."

"That's a little over the top, don't you think?"

"Nope."

Alex shifted uncomfortably at the way Victor voiced his nonchalance for such a crime against a man's disinterest. At the same time, it was an interesting viewpoint. Were they not about to manhandle a potential debtor for much more than indifference?

"What're you getting?" Victor asked, leaning on a rail provided for aligning guests like a rat in a maze. He thumbed the bar with fingerless gloves, adding, "I'm in the mood for a burger."

"I'm not much in the mood for anything at the moment."

"Just get something so I don't have to eat alone."

"You care about your self-image?" asked Alex humorously.

"And you don't?"

"No. I don't care what people think about me."

"That's pretty admirable," Victor mused. "For someone who insists on everyone and their brother call him 'Rooster'."

Alex sent him an annoyed glare but Victor grinned shamelessly as he approached the counter to give the cashier his order. Alex sifted forward, after the other man stepped aside. With a point to make, Alex said coarsely, "Burger and fries. And a Coke."

"Sure thing." The cashier sighed dismissively. He pushed a few buttons on the register. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, uh…A milkshake."

"Ooh!" Victor quickly ambled next to Alex, pointing to the register. "Put me on there for one as well."

"What flavor?" said the cashier tonelessly.

"Vanilla," Victor said with a grin.

"Chocolate." Alex piped in.

"So two burgers, a fry, two milk shakes…" The cashier continued flatly. He asked Victor, "Do you want to make your burger a combo? You can save four dollars."

"Sure, why not," Victor shrugged. "Oh, and add a cookie."

"Cookie…Two Big Man combos, two milk shakes…anything else?"

"That about covers it," said Alex, nodding his head with finality. He looked at Victor: "You're going to eat all that, _and_ a cookie?"

"Nah. The cookie is for someone else."

"For Sylvia?"

Victor chuckled, "No, but I think it's hilarious why you'd suddenly think that."

"Then if not for her…?"

Victor simply handed the cashier a credit card, which the cashier took in what could only be described as painful relief while the other two men bantered about whatever the hell—he didn't care. Once Victor was handed the card, he pocketed it in the inner part of his coat, smiling widely once their large fountain cups were placed on the counter.

Victor handed one of the cups to Alex, who took his with an implied 'thanks'; Victor took his own cup and the hard plastic plaque labeled '21' and strolled to the farthest part of the restaurant where there were an assortment of options for a fountain drink, consisting of teas, lemonades, colas, Gatorade, and even water.

There was a brief silence between them until Alex and Victor sat down in a booth. The both of them had excellent views of the entrance and exit doors.

Too happily, Victor placed the numbered plaque on the edge of the table; after, he drank from his cup, eagerly waiting for his milkshake.

"So," Alex begun. "Who's the cookie for?"

Victor grinned: "Curious, aren't ya?"

"Yeah. If it's not for Sylvia…"

"You think it's for her even though I said it wasn't."

"Well, I've seen how you two act when you are together…" Alex said, his voice trailing off intentionally to lead Victor into the implication.

"And _how_ do we act when we are?"

Alex frowned: "So you know."

"I _do_." Victor said with a crooked grin. "I know what we look like, and I know what _you're_ thinking. But if it's any consolation, man, Sylvia's a friend. A close friend."

"How close?"

"Just very close."

Annoyed by his vague responses, Alex questioned point-blank: "Are you fucking her?"

Victor grinned widely enough so that all of his white teeth were exposed. In return, Alex's frown deepened and he crossed his arms, sitting back.

"What would you really do if I told you we were?"

"I'd probably knock you in the head with a club."

"Such a violent response for someone who could never commit to her. You know…back when it _really_ mattered."

Suddenly, Alex's ill-disposed behavior towards Victor faltered and he gave the latter a mixed look of remorse and offense. Victor took a drink from his cup, lifting the straw a little so he put it back down in thought. He didn't say much of anything else, but Alex wasn't one for uncomfortable silences…Then again, Victor seemed comfortable in any situation, no matter the amount of tension.

"She told you about all of that?" Alex asked.

"Yep," said Victor, then he drank again through the straw. "You and Sylvia were an item for, what, six months. She loved you, you allegedly loved _her_. You were in and out of jail, and instead of telling her the truth about your criminal past, you lied and said you just had to 'be gone a while'. And then," Victor looked up at Alex for the first time since speaking, "You decide that you have to consummate _whatever_ it is you had with her, told her to meet you at the pier one fateful night. And you never showed." He smirked, adding, "You devil dog, you."

The smirk was there, but there was an hostile undertone to his voice, one of which Alex heard.

"That's how it happened, is it?"

"As she remembers it," Victor pointed out. He leaned back into his seat, crossing his ankles: "Obviously, as you can tell, I have my own feelings regarding that whole situation. But as a man who has never really committed himself to any _one_ person, I thought I'd find out your side of the story before I truly came to my own reservations about you."

"Is that why you brought me on this trip?" asked Alex defensively. "To get my side of the story?"

"Not at all," Victor snickered. "Liv asked me to bring you. She seems to be under the impression that you're not cut out to be _just_ a bodyguard or a bouncer."

"That's because I'm not."

"And, yet, you are more than content to work at her club _like_ you are."

"There isn't any work down South anymore."

"Oh, I know. Why do you think I've been working for Penguin all these months?"

"So why the malcontent?"

Victor sighed, and his lips straightened to a tight line: "Do you want to know why Don Falcone never asked you to do his bidding? Why he always chose me over you, in any day of the week? Or, for that matter, why he chose _anyone_ else to carry out his contracts? It's because you don't sell yourself very well."

"Good to know," Alex said despondently. "I didn't realize you were a fucking errand boy yourself. It's nice to get on the same level of respect."

"I'm not an errand boy. For anyone."

Alex startled at Victor's deadly tone, but he reminded, "You've been working for someone your entire life, haven't you? Well, so have I. How is what you do for a living any different than what I do?"

Victor made a face reflecting agreement at this point.

"It's frustrating," Alex offered. "Sometimes, I wish I was my own boss."

"Well, if you're looking at it like _that_ , then we are definitely different. I make my own hours."

"How?"

"I do what I want, when I want, and, more importantly, _how_ I want. But, I also do whatever it is that my boss prefers—why do you think I've worked for Don Falcone all these years?"

"Now you're working for Penguin."

"Yep. And he always makes things interesting for me. He doesn't even do it on purpose."

"And you can work for someone like Penguin?"

"Obviously." Victor mused. He leaned forward: "Personally, I'm surprised he hasn't come for _you_ yet. Penguin isn't exactly the type of man who likes having potential beaus lurking around Sylvia. Then again" (Victor snickered) "Look who I'm talking to."

"Sylvia says I'm good for something."

"Aren't we all?"

"We have history."

"As do we," Victor reminded. "You may know a side of Sylvia that I'll never know, but if you ever have to wonder why she shoots as well as she does, how she's such a great marksman, and moreover, why she's so good at being Penguin's enforcer, you need only look to me."

"You trained her?" Alex asked incredulously.

"You sound surprised."

"Not really 'surprised'. Well…I guess 'surprised' would be the word for it. I just don't see you being a mentor."

"I don't waste my time on candidates who prove to be incompetent or unmotivated," Victor said lazily. "She proved to be worth my time."

"What was her motivation?"

"What do you think?"

"Money?"

Victor giggled, "You really don't know who you left at the pier, do you?"

Alex frowned: "What was her motivation for learning from you?"

"Penguin."

"What about him?"

"Goddamn, you're oblivious," Victor stated in amusement. "Sylvia learned to be a better marksman, to be a better soldier so she could protect Penguin. Everything she has ever done has been done to serve Penguin, to be his unstoppable weapon and his impenetrable fortress. Literally, _money_ is her last priority. If you had taken the time to understand her, to really know her, you'd see that."

"Why do you keep coming at me?" Alex said indignantly. "I told her I was sorry for leaving her. I can't be held accountable for doing something stupid for the rest of my life when it was literally thirteen years ago."

"Sylvia's forgiven you for a stupid mistake. I, on the other hand, can't. And, by the way, you'll always be held accountable for it: in one way or another. Be it by Penguin, by Jim, by me, or…even by Fate." Victor stated. He pointedly held up the plaque that was numbered '21', adding, "See? Even Fate knows the age at which you made your dumb mistake."

"I know it was dumb. I _am_ sorry." Alex said impatiently. "There's nothing I can do to undo what I've done."

"True."

"Besides, you're not her husband or her brother. So why are you taking it so personally?"

Victor leaned forward so Alex slowly sat back.

"Sylvia means a great deal to me, Rooster. And I don't use those words lightly with anyone. She's one of my best friends."

"You were friends when you met. That doesn't really count."

"On a contrary. When we first met, she was ready to kill me." Victor said with a small laugh.

"Because you're a killer?"

"No. Falcone asked me to bring Jim back from the GCPD alive. He wouldn't come quietly, so I had to rain down hell and fire. I'll admit, I really enjoyed it. Falcone later asked me to pass on a message and I met Sylvia for the first time in an alley; she was trying to break into 'Joe's'—it's a floral store, you know."

"I know the place. So did she try to kill you?"

"Nah. But I tell you what. She really wanted to. I could tell. She had a gun to my head. A few things happened since then, and here we are. She's one hell of a woman, one _hell_ of a friend…and Penguin couldn't be luckier to have her. Which is why I don't understand why you'd leave someone who's so dedicated to her family and her friends."

"I thought I saw something more outside of Gotham than what there was. Clearly, there wasn't."

"Clearly. And thanks to your absence, Penguin found her. Thank goodness too. Sylvia deserves someone smart."

"I'm smart." Alex recoiled.

"I'm talking about Penguin-smart, or Edward Nygma-smart."

"Edward Nygma?"

"Penguin's Chief-of-Staff."

"I know who he is," Alex said, mortified. "Why did you mention him? Wait…Does she like him too!"

"Between you and me: Sylvia's heart is fully invested in Penguin. But she does like Nygma. I've seen them together." Victor said with a smile. He put his hands together, adding, "They've got chemistry—"

"Wait, you mean 'like-like'?"

Victor shrugged carelessly: "Sylvia's got a thing for intelligent killers."

" _I've_ killed people."

"Yeah, but you're not intelligent," Victor reminded. He chortled: "Man, you built me up to that one, didn't you?"

"So, she's lusting after nerds."

"I wouldn't go so far as to call either of them 'nerds', but I can certainly see how she's turned off by _you_." Victor reasoned.

"So, she _does_ have a thing for Nygma!"

"Boy, you just have a one-track mind, don't you?"

Alex stood, leaning over the table: "I'm just as good as either of them."

"And there's that ego she's been telling me about."

"I'm smart as any of them!"

"In the department of good looks and being a bodyguard, I guess," said Victor with another careless shrug. "But you still don't even know who our targets are."

"I would if you'd tell me!"

Victor smiled for two reasons. The cashier came out with their order, placing the tray on the table for the men to arrange their own food amongst themselves. For the other reason, Victor found his ignorance too comical.

When the cashier retreated behind the counter, Victor took a long sip of his milkshake and sighed, "You know, vanilla ice cream is so underrated."

"I'm not a vanilla person."

"Well, I'd say that's another reason why Sylvia was in a good way about not being with you, but—then again—you and her had one night together. That's not enough time to—"

"Just shut up and eat," Alex snapped.

Victor smirked. It was easy to get under the young man's skin, no matter how hard Alex tried to make it seem. After a moment of silence where the two hitmen ate their meals to completion and drank their milkshakes down to the bare bones, Alex and Victor sighed in content, both leaning back into the seat to allow their food to digest.

"So who are our targets?" Alex asked.

"You should know two of them."

"Why?"

"You told Liv you'd take care of them, remember? To make sure they weren't dirty?"

"Who?"

Victor shook his head, standing to his feet: "'Who'…You have the memory of a seventy-year-old man, and that's not even doing it justice. Paddock's nearly reaching his higher tenure for dementia, and he still remembers names."

"Would you stop breaking my balls?" Alex retorted as they stepped out of the booth.

"Funny. I didn't realize you had any. My bad," Victor returned politely, slipping past him and out of the restaurant.

Alex watched him in pent-up annoyance.

As he walked after Victor, Alex shouted in exasperation, "Would you at least tell me who the fucking cookie is for!"

* * *

Ed Nygma had never felt alive, although his happiness now derived from electrocuting Butch for the fifth time in the past hour and a half. His better half, Tabitha Galavan, could only let out a desperate plea, muffled by the ball gag in her mouth.

"I'll never get tired of that," Ed purred as he took his button off the remote control.

Once the jolts of electricity slackened, Butch's heavy breathing dulled to painful groans.

For all the efforts of their hiding and dodging crosshairs, Ed had found them.

Butch had a tendency to order take-out a little too often and utilized only a single messenger to transport that food from a single restaurant. The youthful messenger had to be bought with a hundred dollars before he leisurely gave up his contacts—evidently, the boy wasn't tipped well enough.

Butch and Tabitha were hunkered in an abandoned house near Gotham's city limits. The house itself looked like it would collapse from the asbestos likely living within its walls, and Ed had considered moving his torture game to a healthier and humanely inhabitable location. That was before he met eyes with the people who'd murdered his girlfriend. Once he laid eyes on Butch and Tabitha, their slow, devastating, painful deaths had become his only focus.

The both of them had eaten the takeout Butch had, for the last time, ordered. Before the messenger boy had delivered their orders, it had been poisoned with an odorless, tasteless solvent, one of which Ed had placed unknown to the messenger.

Tabitha had fallen 'asleep' long before Butch; the solvent had to work in overdrive in order to counteract Butch's body weight; this was a problem Ed had long since premeditated and it was just a matter of waiting for the chemical to digest before Butch fell unconscious as well.

In their temporary coma, Ed had tied them both to their own chairs, latched their wrists in leather straps, and gagged the both of them with the parts ordered from a provocative store. The financial dip in his assets would be worth seeing them die.

"You should have known this was coming," Ed said hoarsely, glancing between the pair of them as they glared back at him.

"Hmmrmmm!" Tabitha growled.

"Hhhhmmmhhmmmm!" Butch protested.

"I'm glad we're talking it through like adults," Ed snickered. "That's how things are normally done. You know…when people close to me aren't being pushed off a bridge and into traffic."

Butch and Tabitha glanced at each other in confusion before Ed hit the button again, and it threw Butch into another convulsing shock. Tabitha started screaming something, more than just her unintelligible shrieks that meant nothing to Ed…until she started wringing her restrained hands to the best of her ability.

"You need to say something?" Ed asked apathetically.

Tabitha nodded her head violently, getting her point across.

"I sure hope it's a heart-felt plea to keep your lover alive, otherwise, you're really wasting my time," Ed uttered curtly.

He placed the remote on the table, rubbing his hands on his pants before he stepped towards his female antagonist. Ed reached behind her head, undoing the leathered gag. Once he did, Tabitha let out a snarl.

"Tell us what you want!"

Ed smiled cruelly: "I want you to suffer."

"For what?"

"You, and your gorilla boyfriend," said Ed, disgruntled (Butch growled) "took the love of my life away from me."

"We didn't do anything like that—"

"—Oh, you didn't—"

"No, we didn't!" Tabitha exclaimed furiously. "We've been here the entire time, you idiot!"

"Calling me names wouldn't be in your best interest, Tabitha." Ed said calmly. He held the gag up pointedly, adding, "The helmet currently programmed to shock your boyfriend…those same electric shocks are under your chair. You're so worried about him, you should be worried for your own safety. After all, they named you first."

"I've been here the whole time!"

"Well, that's what you _would_ say."

"Who was it?"

"A homeless man. A homeless man named _your_ name. 'Tabitha', he said."

"You're such a liar."

Ed frowned: "I may be a few things, but I don't lie about anything. And I don't bluff either. So…as fun as it was hearing your lamentable excuses," (He strolled to the table, picking up the remote once more) "I'm about to give you a reason to start calling me names. 'Murderer' will likely be one of them."

Butch started struggling, to get out of his restraints while Tabitha desperately pleaded for Ed not to hurt him anymore.

"Maybe I'll just get rid of you first, huh?" Ed offered, pointing the control to Tabitha. "That might hurt Butch a lot more than me hurting him. In fact, I think that is what I'll do instead. And, I think I want to hear you" (he pointed to Butch) "plea for me not to do it. Just as I might've done if I'd been there to stop the two of you from pushing Isabella into the thundering traffic below."

He stepped over the electrical lines on the floor and pulled off Butch's gag.

"Any last words before I kill your girlfriend, lover boy?" asked Ed sinisterly. "You never know. You _might_ be able to sway me. But I highly doubt it."

"That fact that _any_ woman would fall in love with you a second time is kind of funny," Butch said, licking his lips; like Tabitha's, his mouth was chafed by the leather gag that had kept his mouth open for a few hours.

Ed frowned, looking at him.

He couldn't deny that hurt him.

"Or that any woman would want you in any other way but—" Butch started, but his sentence was cut off by the electric jolt that to his own relief had only lasted a few seconds.

Ed bent down at the waist, holding the arms on Butch's chair as he met the man eye-level.

"For _your_ information, Butch. There are _plenty_ other people who like being with me."

"Who?" Butch laughed. "Who would want—"

"Sylvia, for one."

That really stumped Butch's guffawing, much to Ed's deep satisfaction. Tabitha's eyebrows raised in response, and neither of them really had anything to say, based on how confident and how brazen Ed's comeback had been. It had been spoken so boldly, there was no questioning it.

"I guess I'll die happy then," Butch groaned. "Because after I'm gone, you'll be joining me later."

"Why?" Ed asked lowly.

"Because Penguin will be coming for _you_."

"No, he won't. He knows."

Tabitha let out a small hysterical giggle, "She's more fucked up than I thought, then. I knew she had a hand in a little insanity, but I didn't realize she was out of her fucking _mind_. And being with you…" Tabitha's head fell back to the top of her chair as she continued to giggle (mostly mad due to the fact that her boyfriend had been electrocuted over and over in the past hour or so).

Ed strode over to her.

"You think she has a hand in it?" He uttered darkly. "Let's see what _you're_ like when you don't even have a hand."

He strode over to the table on which sat a variety of torture tools. One in particular was picked up and moved onto a smaller table, which was wheeled over and placed directly beside Tabitha. The torture device appeared to be a mini-sized guillotine, fit for chopping off feet or, in this case, hands. The blade gleamed from the sunlight reflecting through the windows.

"What the hell is all of this over again?" Butch called over to Ed, hoping to distract his attention from Tabitha. "Because of a girl?"

"You and Tabitha both conspired to bring Isabella to the bridge. There was a struggle. You shot her" (He gestured to Butch) "and _you_ " (He glared at Tabitha) "pushed her over the bridge and into traffic. The cars _literally_ ran her over to the point I could _barely_ make an identification."

"Wait!" Tabitha squeaked. "If Butch shot her, there would be a bullet missing from his gun!"

"What makes you think I'd believe he'd still keep his gun after committing a murder?" Ed snapped. However, he glanced at Butch. "Then again, he's an idiot. In that instance, _I'd_ be a bigger idiot _not_ to believe that."

He smiled at Tabitha widely. She looked back at him uneasily.

"You sit tight." Ed drawled, patting her head. She angrily flinched from him, to no avail. "I'm going to put this on a 2-minute timer. _You_ two are going to sit here and talk amongst yourselves, while _I_ go back to your bedroom and get his gun. After all, I can't in all good conscience kill you without really knowing, right?" He snickered, "But I have been feeling a little under the weather, so it _will_ take me some time to get it. Hopefully, I'll be back to stop this metal monstrosity in time to save your hand. That is, _if_ you are innocent."

He patted Tabitha's head again and then Butch's head, then placed both the machine on a timer as well as his watch. Once the clock started counting down, he sauntered out of sight.

"In any case this lunatic kills us," Butch managed calmly, "I have to tell you something, baby."

Tabitha glanced at him, muttering, "Whatever you want to tell me, you can tell me later."

"This can't wait."

"Yes, it can."

"No one has ever looked at me the way you do," Butch said, shaking his head, ignoring her reluctance to hear his words. "You're the only one who has ever looked me in the eye when I spoke, cared to listen when I talked, and, honestly, I never thought I'd find someone who would make me feel the way I do."

"Butch…"

"It's okay if you don't feel the same way," Butch insisted. "I just wanted you to know that. I want you to know that I love you."

Ed came back, looking surprised. He held the gun in his hand, and showed them a fully loaded chamber.

"You didn't kill her." He said incredulously. "But who—"

"Stop the timer!" Butch shouted. "Stop the timer! The timer is still—"

And just as he said it, the clock dinged and the steel blade of the guillotine fell.

* * *

Sylvia stood in the Meeting Room of the Van Dahl mansion. It was the first meeting in which Isaac Paddock was not a part. The usual routine of the Heads of the Families arriving and gathering in the living room like a herd of cattle was different when Sylvia was on this end of it. She felt like she'd come to a party either too early or too late as she and the other Heads waited for the Kingpin to make his presence known. Each of the Families had brought one or two constituents along (eye witnesses baring the truth, body guards, that type of deal).

With her, were Jack and Joel, and Benson. The twins stood a little away from the table and the alphas, speaking to each other in quiet conversation. Per the usual, they mimicked Victor Zsasz's dress attire, all for the exception of a brightly colored vest. Meanwhile, Benson kept his arms crossed, the palms of his hands hugging the outer corners of his underarms. Compared to the other body guards, he looked like a rock-hard, boulder.

"Where's Paddock?" asked Anderson to no one in particular. "It's the first time he's going to be late."

"Maybe he's laid up," Ronald Maroni said curiously. "He's not been looking too good, anyway. Guy deserves a night off."

Jock Belich, the French and Russian Head of the Belich Crime Family, sat in one of the chairs, pulling out a cigar from the inside of his leather jacket. He'd joined the table with Don Dray, the Head of the Dray Crime Family; comparably, Don Dray's face was looking more elastic and his hairline was receding more than usual; less salt-and-pepper, more salt than anything, if not gray.

"Can you imagine?" Ronald Maroni uttered, shaking his head. "Barnes gone? What happened to him again?"

"He got infected," Belich said nonchalantly. "Tetch Virus, and all."

"Guy like him, I didn't think he'd get infected with anything," said Maroni, shrugging. "Not even the clap."

"Well, I don't think it was intentional," Belich offered.

"Maybe it was."

"Maybe it wasn't."

"I'm just saying," Maroni offered. "The nicest, most hard-working people have the hardest breaks. All of us are aware of that. We profit on it."

"My expenses are all on the books," Belich said honestly.

"Aren't all of ours?" Maroni joked. "That's what makes us legitimate."

Sylvia smirked: "Just because a business has legitimacy does not mean it is honest."

Maroni giggled, "Ain't that the truth." He looked around the room. "Say, Lark. I thought Zsasz would be here."

"Why would he be?" She asked.

Maroni shrugged. Likely, he was just making conversation.

"He's busy doing something for Penguin and me," Sylvia answered cryptically.

That seemed enough to appease the curiosity within the room.

Tommy Bones arrived, his facial hair a little misshapen as though he'd forgotten to trim. The Duke, who was normally fashionably late, appeared by his side; the latter was always quiet, not having said much, and he looked reasonably fit for a man who only held a small portion of assets when compared to all of them.

"Wow. Duke's here before the King," Anderson loudly announced. "And now that all the jesters are in the court, where on Earth is His Majesty?"

Sylvia wordlessly brushed past Anderson, who minded her curiously quelled retorts with subtle interest.

"You've been having meetings with Paddock," offered Belich. "Any idea where he is?"

"His absence is intentional," Sylvia returned comfortably.

"'His absence is intentional'," Anderson repeated spitefully. "My _presence_ is intentional. So is his, and his, and his, and his, and his" (He motioned to Dray, Belich, Maroni, the Duke, and Tommy Bones) "and mine, and even yours, your Highness."

"Enough with the medieval references," said Sylvia dangerously.

"Don Falcone's boy nearly gets blown to bits," Anderson continued. "Penguin calls us to his humble castle, and here we are. But where is he?"

"I said enough with the medieval references!" She snapped, stepping towards him. "You're getting on my fucking nerves, talking like that. So, do me a favor, would you? Shut it."

She turned to walk to the table to take a seat, her hand on a chair.

"How about speaking to me professionally, in the way that your husband taught you?" Anderson asked.

The Kabuki Twins in the corner frowned as did Benson. Tommy Bones and Maroni glanced at one another uneasily while Dray and Belich closely watched Sylvia as she slowly turned from them, taking her hand off the chair and stepping towards Anderson. Her eyes gazed at him with a deadly calculation.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" She uttered lowly.

"I said—"

"You want me to address you professionally?"

"Well, yes. I think I've deserved that."

"You _deserve_ it?" Sylvia retorted. "Fine. If you think you deserve it. I'll give you what you deserve. Don Anderson, would you kindly shut the fuck up, sit your fucking ass down in a chair, listen to whatever your _king_ has to say, and then _kindly_ , go home and fuck your wife with a K-bar!" (She pushed Anderson hard enough so he tripped over the coffee table and fell onto the floor, on his back.) "Once you do that, you can go fuck yourself with the sharpest motherfucking chainsaw you can find, and then come back to this motherfucking house in an iron lung!"

"Sylvia!"

Sylvia turned to see Oswald walking into the Meeting Room, his widened eyes narrowing and staring at her when he realized how the situation had escalated—Olga wasn't joking when she mentioned the conversation 'has having turned ugly'.

Benson's expression, which was normally stoic or flat, had turned into one that implied that he was impressed with her temper and interesting way of telling one of the other Dons to stop irritating the piss out of her. It wasn't an outburst by any means; Anderson had slowly been making his small, addlepated observations, ticking his proverbial fingernails into the fine lines of Sylvia's figurative skin.

"Everyone. Have a seat." Oswald ordered.

They all did. Sylvia sat beside him, but she didn't sit nearly as close as she used to. After all, they now played different roles.

"Where's Paddock?" Anderson once more demanded to know. "We're all here. We can't start the meeting without him."

"Don Paddock is no longer an associate where we are concerned," Oswald explained. "Lark has succeeded him in that regard."

"You killed him?" asked Dray, startled, looking at Sylvia.

"He is not dead, Mr. Dray." Oswald told him, pulling Dray's attention to him. "Isaac Paddock has been ill for quite some time. It hadn't interfered with his role up until a couple of months ago. Benson, here" (Benson nodded his head at the mention of his name) "was his advisor as well as his accountant. He can attest to the change of command."

"Yep." Benson grunted.

"So, if you haven't gathered your wits about you, gentlemen, Lark is now a part of the Family's chain-of-command."

"What's the verbiage?" asked Belich, clicking his tongue, looking at Sylvia. "What do we call you?"

"Donna Gordon," Benson voiced in his deep baritone.

"Ah, the maiden name thing," muttered Dray, shaking his head. "I'm a fan of tradition, but considering who Detective Gordon is, that'll be confusing."

"I know," Maroni laughed. "Can you imagine? We say 'Gordon' and most people will think of the male one. 'How's Gordon?' 'Which one?' I can see the confusion from a mile away, and I don't even have the greatest eyesight."

"What can make it less confusing?" asked Belich.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia indicatively.

"Call me 'Lark'." She said calmly. "As it always has been."

"And so…" Anderson said dryly. "It looks like you and I are now on the same level of respect."

Oswald shifted in his seat with a slight bout of irritation towards Anderson. He saw Sylvia's hands on the table clench into fists. Her usual restraint seemed lacking today as she turned towards Anderson.

"On the same level of respect?" Sylvia questioned. "I have _no_ respect for you."

"That's good enough for me. Because I don't have any respect for _you_."

"Good to know."

"Good."

"Fine."

"Good," Anderson repeated, shaking his head with a nagging fury.

"You already said that."

"I know. I just wanted to make sure you were listening."

"I don't listen to assholes."

"Sounds to me like you are." Anderson retorted, standing up, leaning over Belich to send her a glare of daggers. "And if I were you, I'd—"

"If you were me?" Sylvia responded immediately, getting to her feet.

Belich glanced between them, slowly pushing his chair out of the way so he wasn't stuck within the crossfire.

"Yes!" Anderson lashed out. "You're no longer on top of me. So, you can't—"

"On _top_ of you?" Sylvia giggled with a malicious smile.

"You know what I meant!"

"I couldn't take it any other way."

"I'm sure you couldn't," Anderson assured. "All you do is order people around. Times are changing, and they _have_ changed. We are on the _same_ playing field. Once you start giving me respect, I'll start giving you the same."

"You can't give anything you never had, you limp dick," Sylvia snarled. "By the way, I ordered you around because it was in my power to do so!"

"You overeager little—"

"—And if this is about your son, we've been around that conversation too many times to count. Can't get over it? _Fuck_ off."

"You're not going to keep talking to me like that!"

"You _deserve_ to be talked to like this!"

"See here, young lady—"

"—And you deserve to be slapped, you _fucking_ asshole!"

"How dare you—"

"—No, how dare _you_ —"

"Enough!" Oswald barked.

"But I—" Sylvia began furiously.

"Lark, leave the room," He ordered.

" **But** —"

"Do as I say." Oswald urged. He added softly, "Please."

Sylvia looked at him angrily, the heat rose to her cheeks as she was obviously humiliated. Oswald motioned his hand towards the kitchen as a point. She pushed her chair into the table with such an admirable force that the candle sticks on the dining table shuddered, then turned on her heel to storm out of the room. Oswald looked after her until the door was audibly closed.

Meanwhile, the Kabuki twins and Benson stared at Oswald with their mouths slightly open, but they were immediately pacified when Oswald leaned forward over the table, his eyes meeting Anderson's with the most animosity any of them had ever seen.

"Don Anderson, you have every right to be angry." He said darkly. "However, while Lark has now been perceived to be a formidable target in your eyes now that she is a Donna, I feel the need to emphasize that while she is no longer your superior, she is, however, _still_ my wife. The next time I hear you debase her in such a cowardly, misogynistic manner, I will personally seek out the service of Victor Zsasz and I will condemn you to hours of torture, the likes of which you, in your many living years, have never seen."

His fingertips tapped the table once before Oswald added, "Are we clear on this matter?"

Anderson gulped and said coolly, "Yes, Sir."

"Good. Now…" Oswald looked at Benson. "Would you kindly ask Lark to return."

"Sure." Benson said, nodding his head. He briefly left the room as Oswald sat down in his seat.

Sylvia returned and she exchanged expressions with Oswald before she sat down. Her arms remained crossed as the discussion continued. During the meeting, Sylvia felt humiliated that she'd been excused from the room, but whatever had transgressed during her absence, Anderson seemed more or less resigned to stay quiet for the duration.

"As members of the Five Families, you are well aware of the tragic downfall of Captain Barnes. People are frightened. They will be looking to us for stability. To feel safe. So," said Oswald slyly, "how does a fifty percent increase on protection fees sound?"

Everyone except for Sylvia tittered in agreement.

" _Sounds a little steep to me_. _"_

Oswald, Sylvia, and the other Heads of the Families turned their attention from one another to the doorway. From there, Barbara Kean strutted into the room in a mid-thigh, white, sequenced dress and black feathered coat.

"What do we have here?" She said sarcastically. "A little family reunion."

She smiled at Sylvia: "Hey, Girlfriend."

Sylvia said with little enthusiasm (due more to the previous argument with the Senior Anderson than with Barbara's unannounced visit): "Hey, Babs."

Barbara glared at Oswald: "Did my invitation get lost in the mail?"

"No." Oswald answered. "This meeting is for grown-ups. So, I'm afraid I will have to ask you to leave."

"Hm." Barbara sighed. "Quick question."

She pulled out a gun from the pocket of her coat and pointed it at Oswald.

The moment she did, literally, everyone in the room stood and pulled out their own weapon, aiming it at Barbara, who seemed barely affected by their response.

"Is it 'how do I commit suicide'," Oswald said quickly, "because that answer is coming."

Sylvia pointed her gun at Barbara notably, standing closer and at least a foot in front of him. Oswald noted her sudden lack of distance, but he wasn't too bothered by it. He didn't see Barbara so much as a threat as an annoyance.

"Tabitha and Butch are missing," Barbara stated sweetly.

Sylvia glanced at Oswald pointedly; he didn't return the expression as he was too preoccupied.

"Where are they?"

"I have no idea," Oswald answered truthfully. "I have not seen Butch since his little summer stock revival of the Red Hood gang."

"Let's cut the crap, shall we? Tabitha has been helping him hide since your little _victory_ celebration. They're an item now, barf. She was supposed to check in every night, and she hasn't; she's not answering her phone, and no one has seen her."

"And you think I took them?"

" _Obviously_ ," Barbara hissed.

Oswald gave a little snicker that he could not suppress and said seriously, "How about this. You put your gun down, and you _beg_ for my forgiveness for this gross insubordination, and I might let you walk out of here alive."

There was a small stand-off between Barbara sizing him up and Oswald glaring right back at her. During this time, Olga came strolling in with a cart full of coffee and when she saw the stand-off happening in the Meeting Room, she let out a 'oh gracious', spoken in Russian.

For whatever reason, Barbara smiled and she placed her weapon back in her coat, saying, "My apologies. They must've run off somewhere without telling me."

And this seemed to pacify Oswald as he smiled understandably—the others in the room lowered their weapons as well.

"Love," Oswald said with a grin. "Makes people do crazy things, doesn't it?"

"All the time," Sylvia voiced lightly, earning a glance from both Barbara and Oswald although for clearly different reasons.

Oswald stepped towards Barbara who watched him carefully as he gave her a warning: "We have history, you and I. But if you ever point a gun at me again, Olga" (He indicated the housemaid) "will be cleaning your brains off the floor. She's a whiz with stains!"

"Bye, Pengy." Barbara whispered. Without looking at her, she added, "See you later, Girlfriend."

Sylvia didn't give her the satisfaction of a response, although hearing Barbara call Oswald 'Pengy' made her a little more than irritated. Just the common lack of respect in the past two hours was starting to grind her nerves. Starting to? No. It had.

"Everyone out!" Oswald ordered. "Now!"

Sylvia watched everyone leave. She was about to do the same, but he caught her wrist.

"Not you, Lark. You stay."

Sylvia dismissed Jack and Joel, and Benson.

"I hear you know how to wield a Samurai sword," Jack told Benson eagerly as they were heading out. "Any chance you could show me and my brother—" The door closed on their conversation.

Oswald used his landline phone on the wall to call the most obvious person, Edward Nygma.

"They what?" Oswald asked, startled. "Who? How did…Ah…"

There was silence on his part as he listened. After a moment, either Ed hung up first or Oswald was still a bit taken aback by Ed's information to say much of anything before he placed the phone on the receiver.

"What is it?" Sylvia asked, concerned.

"He knows Tabitha and Butch didn't kill Isabella," Oswald informed.

"How?"

"Long story short: Butch has a full chamber in his gun."

"Well, that would make sense. _He_ didn't shoot Isabella. Alex did," Sylvia reasoned. "I guess that was enough to convince him, huh?"

"Obviously." Oswald said dismissively. "Meanwhile, he's not back in the office yet."

"He's grieving," Sylvia reminded. "And he doesn't have closure. So, the odds of him resuming his obligatory duties: very minimal."

"Don't condescend to me."

"I'm not. I'm pointing out that Ed needs to work through his grief. It isn't exactly something that is on a timeline. And now, he doesn't have the proper outlet."

"An _outlet_?" Oswald exclaimed, annoyed. "He's literally been torturing Butch and Tabitha for over an hour, and—"

"Finding out that he's been torturing the wrong people does not replace the vengeance he's still feeling. Nothing is going to compare to actually going after the real people who killed Isabella. He's angry enough, he won't stop until he does."

"Then we need to replace it."

"Replace _what_? Another murder? Does Ed have anyone _else_ close to him that I can push off another bridge?" Sylvia said sarcastically.

"No, not a murder," Oswald said impatiently. "Just something to dull it down."

"Oswald, you can't _dilute_ anger."

"There's always the option of choosing a different outlet."

"You mean _other_ than killing people. Finding an alternative to that…That's gotta be a _strong_ alternative to displace that sort of emotional gratification."

"Or a physical one."

Sylvia looked at Oswald, disarmed. For a moment, she wondered if he meant what he just said.

"You are _not_ serious," Sylvia chided.

"Well, it's an option."

"Temporary."

"But it _would_ distract him."

"Sex?" said Sylvia cynically. "You think _sex_ will distract him from wanting to kill the people who _murdered_ his girlfriend?"

Oswald shrugged: "I know it takes my mind off something that I'd like to forget."

"No."

"No what?"

" _No_. You are _not_ having sex with Ed just so he doesn't pursue his agenda, however murderous the intent. That's not even right!" Sylvia scolded.

"Not _me_!" Oswald responded strongly.

"Well, it's not gonna be _me_!"

"Why not you?"

"Why not me?" Sylvia exclaimed. "He's grieving! He's depressed! He's not even in the right state of mind. Having sex with me isn't going to change his mind about killing people who hurt him, Oswald! I know I'm a good fuck but goddamn, I have limits too, you know."

Oswald smiled half-heartedly at her point: "It might make him feel a little better."

"No, Oswald."

"I mean, you have _my_ permission."

" _No_."

"What would be the harm?"

"Emotional distress, angst, anger, self-loathing," Sylvia listed effortlessly.

"During?" Oswald asked, taken aback.

"No! _After_!"

"I just can't stand to see him moping around."

"Then maybe you should've just let him be with Isabella. Live and let live, Oswald." Sylvia said irritably. "Eventually, he'd have figured out that she wasn't—"

"—Stop, Sylvia. Enough," He recanted, waving his hand to her dismissively. "We've been through this argument before."

"So, you thought you'd just spice it up by adding the little bit where Ed would be happier if I fucked him one night?" Sylvia offered sarcastically. "That's not making your defense any better."

"Call it a 'suggestion'."

"It's a horrible one."

"But it _is_ an option. And a spontaneous one, at that."

"Oswald," Sylvia sighed, "There's just so many things wrong with it…Ed is hurting. He is in pain. Having sex with him while he's in this vulnerable state—it's not right."

"And yet, I know you've thought about it." Oswald reminded with a small smile. "Especially the other night."

"You mean the night when you started things and just when they were about to heat up, you cut me off?" Sylvia asked sardonically.

"Yeah," Oswald said mischievously.

"I did think about it," She admitted. "But then I took a shower, fucked myself in the tub, and then went to bed like, you know, a reasonable person."

Oswald laughed. He couldn't help it. Just this argument alone and all the disagreements in the past seemed to have had bubbled to the very surface. Out of all the arguments they'd had, this was probably one of the most unnecessary ones.

"Has it ever occurred to you," He said softly, "That maybe Ed is curious what it is like with _only_ the two of you."

"It has. And he _is_. But I'm not going to take advantage," Sylvia reminded coolly.

"But maybe that's what he wants."

"God…Is that what _you_ want?" She questioned. "You're pushing this too hard for someone who just 'wants to see Ed happy'."

Oswald shrugged, saying, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. We've talked about this before."

"Hypothetically, yes. But if all you want is to see Ed happy, then why don't you just suck him off?" Sylvia said bluntly. "I always hear a man knows what a man wants. Plus, it'd probably be quicker if you did."

Oswald smirked at her suggestion as if he hadn't thought of it before.

However, he had. There was something he couldn't quite configure about Ed's behavior, though. Between Ed and himself, there was almost a tension that wasn't quite right, and yet, was right as is. For someone who'd seen themselves naked, had born their very animalistic desires before each other, Ed was almost passive with his affections towards Oswald. This alone made him think that what Ed had said that night—that he loved them both—was not meant in the amorous sense.

Platonic love was still a love, Oswald assured himself. But he wanted more than just platonic love. That sort of love was reserved between Victor Zsasz and Sylvia, or even the interesting friendship that Sylvia and Barbara Kean shared where there was mutual respect, even mutual physical attraction.

Oswald sneaking into Ed's bedroom for a repeat of that night didn't sit well with the Kingpin, no matter how badly he wanted it.

However, he knew Ed loved Sylvia; their chemistry together consisted of their love for riddles and word play, the easy banter between them, their knowledge of the GCPD and its workings, and the strength their friendship had been built simply based on Ed's pursuit for Kristen Kringle's affection. It was a chemistry that couldn't be made in a lab, and it even rivaled Oswald's love for Sylvia's.

The only difference being, of course, that Sylvia saw Ed as a friend. Even an amorous one. But still a friend.

"So, is it still a declination?" Oswald asked.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, biting back a smile as she walked into the kitchen, helping Olga start dinner.


	60. Facetiming with Barbara

Chapter Sixty: Facetiming with Barbara

* * *

Barbara Kean waited for Penguin to leave for the office before she'd returned. He'd be gone for a while. Edward Nygma was out doing whatever it was, it seemed, and Sylvia Cobblepot was out performing at a venue in the Lo Boyz's territory. As she suspected, Penguin had insisted she bring her own security detail so nearly half the guards at the mansion accompanied her.

And this left the fortress empty, all with the exception of their housemaid, Olga.

Barbara sauntered into the living room, smiling when Olga brushed the chandelier for dust.

"Hello, Comrade," She greeted smoothly.

The housemaid paused her cleaning duties before she said notably in fair English, "Comrade is not Russian word."

"Shut up, of course it is," Barbara replied with an almost teasing grin. She took off her coat, and threw it over an armchair.

"You shouldn't be here."

"Relax. I know Penguin's out for a couple of hours…I just want to talk."

"I don't know anything," Olga said dismissively, getting down from the chair and moving about the room.

"Listen," Barbara said sweetly, walking after her. "I grew up in a place like this. Large staff of people always coming and going" (She lightly placed her hand over Olga's) "listening. You can't help but overhear things."

Olga considered her words, glancing down at her hand and said with a knowing smile, "Is handsome ring."

"And _very_ expensive," Barbara said with an intentionally dramatic air, slipping it off her finger and handing it to Olga. "I bet it would look _fabulous_ on you."

Olga took it from her and put it on her own hand, admiring it for its emerald elegance before she looked at Barbara, who paid her close attention; "Mr. Penguin. He treats me nice. And his wife always helps me with dinner."

"I didn't fancy little Lark for a homemaker," Barbara said with a sly smile.

"She help with the cleaning. Makes her own bed. Is small things."

"Of course."

"I have warm feelings for them both. But the other one…" Olga said snidely.

"Nygma…?"

"Yes. I don't see why Mr. Penguin likes him _so_ much. He can do better…figure Miss Sylvia does it enough…"

"Wait," Barbara said quickly. "You mean 'like-likes'?"

Olga nodded.

"And our homemaker wifey is aware of this?"

"She support it…and she likes Nygma too."

"Does Penguin know _that_?"

"She's not as soft on him as Mr. Penguin, but uh…they're benefit friends."

"They're friends with benefits?"

Again, Olga nodded.

"Wow." Barbara breathed; her eyes widened in interest before she gave a small little chuckle: "We will definitely have to revisit _that_ another time. But what about Nygma? Did he say anything about my missing friend?"

"I don't know," Olga returned sympathetically. "But I hear Mr. Nygma talking about special delivery, but nothing come to the house but bill." She pulled out a drawer underneath the desk at which Ed would likely utilize, and withdrew a piece of paper, handing it to her.

"Stocks and bondage?" Barbara said skeptically, looking at the titled paid money order.

" _Barbara?"_

She and Olga turned their attention to the doorway. Sylvia came in, wearing what appeared to be a red and black one-piece bathing suit underneath a navy-blue coat. She carried a pair of knee-high leather boots, elbow-length gloves, and a half-mask, walking inside with bare feet, her toenails polished black.

"Well, I feel like I must've missed one hell of a performance," Barbara drawled, gathering the image of Sylvia wearing all of that, as well as seeing her Kabuki consorts striding in not too far behind her, wearing skin-tight leather pants, white tank tops, and black eyeliner.

"You're not wrong," Sylvia returned with a small smile. "Boys, take the day off. Olga, would you…"

"Of course," Olga said almost immediately. She dusted the rest of the desk before heading into the kitchen to clean that room next.

Sylvia placed everything she held on a chair, pulling her hair out of a messy bun; the pearls and encrusted sapphires strung throughout seemed to be latched to that one scrunchie as most of them slackened and fell into her expectant hands.

"How was the performance, Girlfriend?"

"Successful. Why are you here?"

Barbara shrugged, saying, "Maybe I just wanted to have a little facetime with one of my friends."

"Should've called ahead then," Sylvia reminded distractedly. " _Fuck_ …The string is caught on my hair!"

"Hold on, hold on…"

Barbara sat on the couch with her, shooing Sylvia's hands away from the stringed faux jewelry so she could help her out. After a moment, Barbara exhaled with exasperation, saying, "Put your head in my lap."

Sylvia blinked: "I'm sorry?"

"I have to reach up to your head, Liv. My arms are getting tired. This will be easier if you just put your head down."

"In your lap?"

"Yes."

"Alrighty-then." Sylvia scooted to the end of the couch and did as the woman suggested. She touched the top of Barbara's mid-thigh boots, adding, "These are nice."

"They're real leather."

"Can't be good for the skin."

"I have _very_ long stockings on." Barbara mused. She twisted her fingers through the strings and heard Sylvia's gasp of pain, however stifled it was. "What amateur did this?"

"Jack."

"Who?"

"One of the twins."

"Huh. This never happened before."

"That's because Oswald normally does it." Sylvia explained.

"How're the Lo Boyz?" Barbara asked. "Did they get in the way?"

"Nope. Contrary to what people believe, they're pretty lax."

Barbara smiled, suppressing a giggle. Sylvia's breath on her exposed thigh tickled; her hands naturally placed underneath her. He could feel her hand just barely grazing the skin of the outermost thigh; whether that was intentional or it was just Sylvia's mannerism of being affectionate or a touchy-feely person as Barbara knew her to be, it wasn't unpleasant.

"Been a while since we got this close," said Barbara nonchalantly. She picked out the last of the jewels, and the strings completely came undone, slinking them out until they were on the cushion.

"I know."

Barbara grinned when Sylvia quickly sat back up, massaging her head.

Sylvia loved Penguin. She liked Ed enough to be his friend with benefits (even, she wondered, if Ed wasn't really tracking that same path), so Barbara briefly pondered the extent of their own friendship. It wasn't a secret that she was irrevocably attracted to Sylvia; what with her bright cerulean eyes, the natural pout of her rosy lips, and her fiery red hair…not to mention the temper Barbara had seen over these past few years. The same type of fire Barbara saw in Tabitha. The same she'd seen in Jim Gordon.

"The last time we had this much fun together, you and I were having lattes and I was asking for an advancement to buy my club," She said sweetly.

Sylvia rubbed her own head for a while longer before she glanced at her once more before standing up and stepping away from her.

"'The Sirens'," She recalled.

"Ah, so you do remember."

"How can I forget? It's a staple in this city now."

"That's flattering, coming from you."

"I don't see why," Sylvia uttered, wincing when she felt the back of her thigh rub against the couch. She glanced down to see why the velvet texture had been unusually so rough, only to realize that she had suffered a very mild burn; it was bright red compared to her normally pale skin—nothing that would remain there for more than a couple of weeks.

Barbara followed her gaze and said knowingly, "Keeping up the act with a little flame, huh?"

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" Sylvia said vaguely. "I'm going to get dressed. I'll be right back."

"I'll be here."

Sylvia briefly left to the bedroom before she came back in jeans, a loose off-the-shoulder dark purple sweater, and bare feet. She still wore the dark, embellished eyeliner in her waterline and on top of her lids; the glittery maroon eyeshadow giving the vibe of a casually-dressed, modern day vampire. Before completely entering the living room, she moved to the kitchen and then returned with two glasses of champagne, one of which Barbara gratefully accepted.

"You make a lot of money at your venue, Fire Dancer?" She asked, lifting and crossing a leg over her other knee.

Sylvia paused before she sat down, saying, "I've not heard that name in a while."

"Jerome had it right."

"Only one of the few things."

"And yet, you found him charming."

"He was charismatic," Sylvia offered helpfully. "And he's also dead. So…"

"Point."

"So, I'll ask again."

"Hmm?"

"Why are you here?"

"I told you."

"Yep, for face-timing. But you knew I wasn't here when you came in, uninvited," Sylvia reminded, smirking. "Everyone who knows my agenda knows I was out of the house, knows that Oswald is out on a press conference, and knows that Ed is not here."

Barbara considered asking Sylvia if she knew anything about Tabitha, and Nygma taking her. But what Olga said, about Sylvia having such a close relationship with him as an amorous friend, retracted that benefit. Sylvia wasn't just a physical person who could have a sexually charged night; there were emotional strings, and giving up a friend as close as she was to Nygma wasn't going to be that easy.

So, she thought better against it.

"I really just wanted to see you. And, actually, ask you something."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow: "And you couldn't do that by phone?"

"Is my presence really that much of an inconvenience?" said Barbara, feigning hurt.

Sylvia looked at her for a moment. She drank from her glass of champagne once before placing it on the coffee table. Following her motion, Barbara did the same.

"It's not like you to visit without calling ahead. You've done it once already this morning. So, is this going to be a new habit of yours, or am I going to, one day, be coming out of the shower and see you sitting on my bed, spread-eagled for me?"

Barbara giggled: "You have a really perverted mind, you know that?"

"I do. Can't help but think you kind of like it."

This comment alone made her heart beat a little faster. Sylvia's words were blunt, spoken without much affliction for however her recipients perceived her tone. Barbara licked her lips quickly, and decided to drink the rest of her champagne.

"How's the club business?"

"Same as yours."

"Successful?"

"Always," Barbara purred. "I have you to thank for that."

"No need to thank me. Just helped out a friend, is all."

"I never got to show my appreciation for your generosity."

"Don't worry about it," Sylvia reassured, waving it away. "It's been a year and some change."

Barbara scooted forward. Such a small action, but it pulled Sylvia's mind to her completely.

"Poor baby," Barbara mewed, raising her hand to cup Sylvia's cheek. "So, distracted…So _stressed_."

"What are you doing, Babs?"

"Just taking a long, hard look at you."

"Can't you do that without touching my face?"

"Or I can do it _while_ touching your face," Barbara debated playfully. "It goes both ways. We both know you do."

"But why…"

"Shhh…."

Sylvia looked at her, puzzled. Barbara leaned forward.

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the fact that in this big old house, there were only the two of them, two women, just sitting alone in its vast emptiness. Maybe it was because Barbara had seen Sylvia dressed in a skin-tight black-on-red leotard, or how exhausted she appeared. There was no telling.

Barbara's lips lingered in front of Sylvia's for a second, just waiting to see if the other would meet her halfway. Unknown as to the reason why, she did. And for more than one kiss.

Barbara kissed her softly, sliding her tongue across her bottom lip, adding pressure to the line where they met.

She lifted her hands, caressing Sylvia's face between her palms, pulling her closer. Even as she slipped her tongue inside her mouth, Barbara could feel Sylvia's tongue rubbing against hers, almost defiantly ambitious. That stubbornness was a family trait, evidently. The need for self-assertion, the denial for submission.

How far could she take it?

Barbara lowered one of her hands to Sylvia's thigh, squeezing. It was at this moment that the kissing abruptly stopped, and the redhead's reciprocation stuttered.

"How's that for face time?" Barbara breathed a soft giggle.

Sylvia looked at her uncertainly.

"We can take this a little further, no strings attached." Barbara offered with a sly little smile. The mischief reached her eyes.

It almost looked like she would seriously take her up on the offer, but Sylvia left the couch, shaking her head. She stood in front of the fireplace, peering at the dying embers.

"Playing hard-to-get?" Barbara asked with a knowing smile.

"I'm not playing anything," said Sylvia, shuddering despite the fact she wasn't feeling cold at all. "I think you should leave."

"Did I cross a boundary?"

"Something like that."

"And if I chose not to leave?"

Sylvia smiled inwardly, turning on her heel to see Barbara standing and watching her eagerly. She was pushing her buttons, pulling her strings.

"Why are you here, Babs?"

"Like I said. To bond a little with you."

"Why?"

"Who wouldn't want to be near a woman so high up in the food chain," Barbara whispered, meeting Sylvia at the fireplace. "You're in charge of all of us little people." Her hand caressed Sylvia's chin. "But it's not just that. Who wouldn't want to get closer, hm?"

Sylvia sighed, "Tabitha being with Butch makes you jealous, doesn't it?"

"No," Barbara said, her silky manipulation died in its tracks.

"Then lonely."

"I just wanted—"

"—You just wanted _what_?" Sylvia questioned, tilting her head to the side. She took Barbara's hands and moved them away from her.

"Honestly," Barbara purred (her smooth, butter-soft voice was back). "I just want to know what you're really all about, Fire Dancer."

"And if I said 'no'?"

"Did you give Nygma this hard of a time when he tried to evolve your friendship?" Barbara asked.

Sylvia stared at her: "How do you know about that?"

"The walls have ears."

"Hm."

Barbara smirked when Sylvia stepped closer to her. They were only an inch away from kissing again.

Most of the time, she could harden her heart. Barbara did it back when she left Gotham and returned to see Jim Gordon kissing Leslie Thompkins. She did it long after the Ogre had captured and manipulated her, and ultimately, freed her from this fixed prison that made her guard her own impulses, hiding them from the rest of society.

And through it all, Sylvia was there. She protected her from Butch and Fish's people when they came after her because of Jim; she was there when Barbara had been sent to Arkham, and all those times that she just needed a friend. Not to mention the fact that Sylvia was the most entertaining person around when people were dying and Bruce Wayne's life was hanging by a thread—and that night included Jerome Valeska, of all people.

It was no doubt in Barbara's mind, no faking or manipulating her own self-gratification, that she wanted Sylvia in the same way that Nygma allegedly had her. She was fiery. She was intelligent. She was comical, and that blunt way she spoke made the hairs on the back of Barbara's neck stand on end.

Penguin's wife? Barbara wasn't interested. She wanted Sylvia Gordon. She wanted the woman who held Gotham's assets and its entire Underworld by the strings while Penguin was in Arkham, alone.

"Is that why you came by?" Sylvia asked. "To 'evolve' our friendship?"

"There are far worse reasons to make an unannounced visit."

"You mean so you could come by, accuse Oswald of holding your ex-girlfriend hostage, and then put a gun in his face?"

Barbara frowned slightly: "You're upset about _that_ now?"

Sylvia pushed her hand away from her face, saying blatantly, "If you thought I wouldn't be, you really don't know me at all."

"Anyone who knows Penguin knows he doesn't like Tabby."

"I'm not talking about the accusation part. I'm talking about how you held him at gunpoint."

"There were _other_ guns pointed at me too, you know."

"And that was self-inflicted."

"Alright," Barbara admitted. "I shouldn't have done that. Okay? I was just worried."

"Hm."

"Tabitha means a lot to me."

"I gathered that too quickly."

"So, you can see why I did what I did?" Barbara asked.

"Hm."

"You, more than anyone else, should be able to understand."

Sylvia considered this and said softly, "I suppose I can."

"Are we okay, Girlfriend?" Barbara asked, brushing the back of her hand gently over Sylvia's face, and her thumb ever so lightly rubbed down her throat.

"We are. But not enough for me to eat your pussy out, if that's what you're hoping for."

Barbara giggled, but the hairs on her arms stood on end, hearing Sylvia's phrasing.

"I'll take it then."

Sylvia smiled when Barbara pecked the corner of her mouth, then deepened it. Olga came into the room just as the kiss naturally broke.

"I'll see you later, baby."

Sylvia watched her leave. Olga looked at her.

"You talked, didn't you?"

Olga shrugged: "I say nothing more than what other people say."

"You'd say less than nothing if you value your place here," Sylvia softly warned. She patted Olga on the arm, adding, "But that _is_ a beautiful ring you're suddenly wearing. I hope the information you gave to her was worth it."

Olga didn't say much of anything, and was certain this was the last time she would ever say anything to anyone else besides her upper management.


	61. A Plot Thick As Mud

Chapter Sixty-One: A Plot Thick As Mud

Author's Note: Hello, my Lovelies! Here's another chapter! We're almost, if not already, into Season 3B! Can you imagine? In the next chapter, things get really spicy between Ed and Sylvia *

* * *

Barbara found Tabitha.

She also found Butch.

She also found Nygma just moments after Tabitha's hand was chopped off by a guillotine. While Nygma only recommended for the decapitated hand to be iced on the way to the hospital, Barbara acted quickly, untying both Butch and Tabitha and getting them all into a car so they could head to the hospital.

While Butch transported Tabitha in a wheelchair through the hall, Barbara carried the hand.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Butch asked worriedly, glancing down at Tabitha, who was lumbering between sleep and wakefulness. "Do you think they'll be able to reattach the hand?"

"Please. She's tough as nails; she should be fine."

"You know this is war, right? Nygma, Penguin, anyone that stands with them. They're all dead!"

"This Isabella," said Barbara curiously. "Nygma said she was a librarian. Who _kills_ a librarian? I mean, what's the motive?"

They turned the next corridor where a bunch of orderlies and nurses were gathered for the change of shift. One was about to object to their sudden intrusion until Barbara shoved the bag of ice (with a hand in it) into her face; immediately, the tone changed and Tabitha was being instantly escorted to the surgery room for reattachment of her missing appendage.

"Maybe someone had an overdue book and things got out of hand," Butch offered after Tabitha was wheeled on a gurney to the Emergency Room. He looked at Barbara, who seemed more puzzled about the ordeal and why it happened rather than what or who it happened to.

"You lull someone to a bridge, alone at night," thought Barbara aloud, earning a curious look from Butch. "You get them to meet you on a bridge, with _no_ weapons. No armed guards, no extra body to witness anything. Isabella would have had to know them."

"Penguin?" asked Butch.

"Nygma said a homeless man named Tabitha," Barbara reminded.

"She wasn't there!"

"I know that, you idiot!"

"So what?"

" _So,_ that means there was a woman there, who called herself 'Tabitha'. Used Tabitha's name as an alias, likely thinking that Isabella would've walked out of that meeting alive. The enemy in her mind would've been named 'Tabitha'; if she had a violent bone in her body, she'd be after _her_." Barbara contemplated.

"Okay…?"

Barbara gestured to him, saying, "What woman do we know would try to get Isabella out of the way—we don't know. But we _do_ know a woman whohates Tabitha with every fiber of her being. And who is _also_ a close friend to Nygma."

Butch stared at her and shook his head: "No."

" _Yes_." Barbara breathed. "But it's not just her."

"That sounds like enough motivation to me," Butch assured unhappily. "Sylvia, though. Why would she—"

"Why _wouldn't_ she, is more like."

"I don't get it."

"Sylvia doesn't kill people just for the hell of it," Barbara stated. "Normally, she's either pissed off or vengeful…or…."

" _Or_?"

"Carrying out the orders of the only person she really ever listens to."

Butch said skeptically, "Who?"

"The same person who is in love with Nygma and doesn't want to share him," Barbara said mischievously.

"Okay. One woman in love with that psychotic bean pole defies explanation, but _two_?"

"Whoever said it was a woman?" Barbara giggled. She added seriously, "I am _tired_ of sitting at the kids' table. If I'm right, we can have way more than vengeance. We can have it all. We don't need to go to war. All we need to do is start one!"

"But who is it?"

"That's really all you can—fine. It's _Penguin_."

"Penguin is in love with Nygma?" asked Butch incredulously.

"Mayor and his Chief-of-Staff."

"But what about Sylvia—"

"She's supportive!" Barbara exclaimed, grinning widely. "From what I hear, she and Nygma have had at least one night together."

"So, the Mayor, his Chief-of-Staff, and the First Lady of Gotham—"

"—Ah, I really wouldn't think too hard on it, big guy. Where Sylvia and Nygma are concerned, it doesn't sound too serious, but ya never know."

"So, they're friends with benefits…" Butch groaned.

"It sounds like it."

"That's…"

"I know." Barbara agreed.

* * *

"Why would Sylvia kill someone that Nygma loves?" Butch asked.

They sat in Tabitha's room within Gotham General. She was still asleep—the doctor gave her some heavy sedatives to dull down the pain of her attached hand.

Barbara sat on the other side of Tabitha's bed. She hooked her ankles together, mindful of their quiet conversation. Luckily, the door was closed—and they were the only occupants in the room, currently.

"Because Penguin told her to."

"But emotion and all that," Butch reminded.

"She probably got the order, but Sylvia isn't a cold-blooded killer. I think what happened was that she tried to talk Isabella into leaving town for Oswald's sake, try to go about it in a less bloody way. Things got out of hand, and Isabella went bye-bye and over the bridge."

"Nygma mentioned a gun."

"Isabella was shot," Barbara explained, eying him pointedly. "But Sylvia wouldn't carry a gun if she thought the situation would have been handled bloodless. I think someone else was there."

"Penguin?"

" _No_. He wouldn't do the dirty work himself. You're using him as your go-to, I get it, but still. Kind of annoying, really."

Butch growled, "We'll make them pay for it."

"For now, we'd leave Sylvia out of it."

"She killed the librarian."

"Yes, she did," Barbara agreed. "But I think Penguin manipulated her into killing her."

"Why?"

"She's in love with Penguin more than she's in love with herself. Self-preservation isn't her strongest suit; but making _him_ happy is. Even if it is at the expense of hurting a friend, no matter what the benefit is," Barbara said coolly. She brushed a hand through her hair, adding, "As passionate as our Lark is, she really is too much of a Penguin-pleaser."

Butch stood from his chair, looking at Barbara: "You _like_ her, don't you?"

"Of course, I like her," Barbara said shamelessly. "What is there not to like?"

"She's complicit in this whole thing!" He gestured to Tabitha. "She's basically the reason Nygma came after her!"

"It's her fault but it's not her fault. She's literally following orders."

"She could have chosen not to follow those orders."

"Maybe. But if Tabitha told you to kill someone, wouldn't you do it?"

Butch neither agreed nor disagreed. And because of his lack of response, Barbara knew she'd proven her point.

"So, what do we do?" asked Butch.

"We make them turn on each other."

"Easier said than done. There's no way you're going to make Sylvia turn on Penguin if she's willing to kill Nygma's girlfriend all in the name of making her husband happy."

Barbara snickered, "We just need to put our chess pieces on the board, and they'll move on their own."

Butch sat back down, leaning forward. He gingerly held Tabitha's arm in his hands, stroking it with the pad of his thumb. Barbara did something similar, although she massaged Tabitha's head, lightly lacing her fingers through her hair.

"I tell Nygma about Penguin's love for him," Barbara plotted. "That comes first. He'll obviously deny it. But after a small confrontation with Penguin, he'll figure out what I said was the truth. Then, he'll come to us."

"I'm not working with that freak."

"You might have to if we want more than just vengeance. Gotham is in my blood; I think it's time we took it for ourselves," said Barbara lucratively. She brushed her hand over Tabitha's cheek, adding, "We deserve that much, and so much more."

"Once he finds out that Sylvia killed Isabella, Nygma might kill her first. That'll really put a wrench in things."

"He won't." Barbara said assuredly.

"What makes you so certain?"

"They have history. Nygma may be pissed off later that Sylvia killed her, but he knows—just like I do—how great of an influence Penguin has over her."

"How does a guy like Penguin have that much control over someone like Sylvia though?" Butch said irritably. "She can literally have any guy or woman. She had Gotham on its knees at one point. Why follow him?"

"I know you're angry, baby," Barbara mused. "But you're always missing the whole point. They don't just love each other. They need each other. When one falls, the other isn't too far behind. And they have history—They've been through more together than what normal married couples have to endure, even by Gotham's standards. You and Tabitha were integral in that."

Butch winced, thinking of how Galavan had followed through with killing Oswald's mother, and how Tabitha had really done the deed.

"So, if we kill Sylvia first, we take down Penguin after."

"No. We can't kill her."

"But you just said—"

"—If we kill her, both Nygma and Penguin will be coming for us!" Barbara hissed. She tapped the bed lining, adding, "When I said we need to plan this carefully, I meant it! Like a game of chess. To break a barrier like the trust and love Sylvia and Penguin have for each other requires more than just a killing."

She pondered for a moment, then smiled.

"Why do bridges collapse over time?" She asked arbitrarily.

Butch stared at her, saying, "What the hell are you talking about?"

" _Stress_ ," Barbara answered her own question eagerly, leaning forward with a wide smile. "Bridges collapse because of stress over time, and weight. Now…" She stood, pacing slowly around the room. "I've seen the two of them—Penguin and Sylvia. Nygma is grieving so Penguin's had to pick up the slack where Nygma normally would be operative, also handling the affairs that come with being Mayor, _while_ also doing what he does with the Underworld."

She stopped in place, turning to Butch.

"Sylvia has been getting more involved with her performances, her work as a First Lady of Gotham, taking on Paddock's old role as a gang leader, and I bet the Penguin-Isabella-Nygma triangle hasn't been granting her any reprieve either," Barbara continued. "All of that stress, plus a few little things we're about to introduce…Stress can make or break a marriage. We can use that."

Butch frowned: "It's like you said though. They've been through a lot. And they've come out stronger."

"I know."

"They lost a baby together."

"I know that too."

"So how would this whole thing even break the surface of what they've got going on?" Butch asked, frustrated.

Barbara smirked: "Put tons of weight on a bridge, and it won't crack. Add a single bookend, and suddenly, the whole thing is in the damn water. Oswald's empire, the mayoral reputation, his subordinates, all of that can be crippled."

"And Sylvia? With her beside him, he'll still have power."

"Not if we can get her out of the way."

"By killing her?"

" _No_. For a moment, get murder off your mind," Barbara chastised.

"So, if not murder, _what_ then!" Butch snapped, throwing his hands up in the air.

"We separate them. Not physically, obviously. Emotionally."

"What, a break-up?"

Barbara nodded: "More than that. To get Penguin alone, to kill him properly, we would need to make sure that Sylvia is no where near him. She needs to get angry enough, _hateful_ enough, spiteful enough to really leave. At least for a couple of days, maybe even four."

"That's impossible."

"Not if you know her well enough."

"Who'd know her that well enough to know what would tear them apart?"

Barbara moved forward and patted Butch's head saying smartly, "The one person you really don't want to work with."

"Nygma?"

"That's riiiight," Barbara sang. "And he'd know Sylvia and Oswald's worst scraps in the past. Oswald loves him; Sylvia confides in him. He'd know the sore spot to prod, to get them apart."

"That sounds like a brilliant plan," Butch whispered with a large grin.

Barbara grinned back and said with a beautiful smile, "Did you expect anything different from me?"


	62. Friends With Benefits

Chapter Sixty-Two: Friends With Benefits

Author's Note: That's right. Ed catches a break in this chapter in the naughtiest way possible XD

* * *

Sylvia sat in her office at _Lean on Vee's_ , scribbling in her large, leather-bound book. Updating her financial earnings and expenditures was probably one of her least favorite things to do when it came to owning and managing a club; mostly, because it was boring as hell.

The raucous crowd downstairs seemed to die down as it came closer to closing time. She heard a knock against the doorframe, and she looked up when she saw Jim there.

"Long time, no see," He greeted with a little smile.

"Took the words right out of my mouth." She returned happily. She gestured to the chair that sat in front of her desk: "Have a seat. How've you been?"

"So-so."

Sylvia put her pen down, looking him over. Jim looked just as exhausted as the rest of Gotham, but no more than usual. He sat in the chair, and she noticed how stiff he appeared.

"I heard about Captain Barnes," She acknowledged the elephant in the room.

"By now, the news has spread," Jim accepted, aloof. "It's hard to keep anything away from the media; they normally pounce on any bad PR for the police department the moment they get a whiff."

"Fucking hell. You're starting to sound like Harvey."

"Can't blame me."

"How's Falcone?"

"You heard about that too?"

"Gangster," She chirped, gesturing to herself. "Falcone's baby boy nearly gets charcoaled and the cops really don't expect anyone to catch wind of it? _Especially_ down here in the Underworld."

"You have a point."

"That, I do. How's Mario?"

"Grudgeful."

"His father?"

"Vengeful."

"So, about the same," Sylvia said easily, reaching for the glass of whiskey that had been sitting idle for the past thirty minutes. She took a sip, offering him a taste. He declined.

"Have any suspects?" She asked.

"Well…"

"I did one show at an engagement party. I hope that doesn't condemn me to your interrogative personality."

"It doesn't." Jim excused, sending her a half-smile. "But, as someone who spent a weekend within Falcone's residence, near his family, and is married to his successor, I felt like I wouldn't be doing my due diligence if I didn't make the visit."

"You have a point," Sylvia said slyly; she and her brother exchanged an amused expression at the use of his own words. She took another drink from her glass: "Fire away."

And as expected, Jim started into his questions.

"Do you know anyone that would hurt Mario?"

"Only everyone who has a vendetta against Falcone."

"Carmine says he kept Mario out of the crosshairs."

"Just because you keep your family out of the business doesn't mean you're not an integral part to whatever a maniac has in store for their own vengeful purposes," Sylvia reminded hoarsely. She licked her lips, adding, "Falcone was once the King of Gotham; Mario is his prince. They may not share the family business, but Mario _does_ share his blood."

"Do you know anyone who would have the means of obtaining explosives?"

"I can refer you to someone who's been known for handing out explosives. He does his business down in the Narrows. He has the know-how for the most part." She offered freely.

Jim nodded graciously.

She placed her whiskey on a towel, and coasted her wheeling office chair to the other side of her desk. Silently, she thumbed through a few documents before she ripped a piece of paper from the pile and handed it to Jim, who glanced at it interestedly.

"Do you need this back?" asked Jim.

"No."

"Can I ask why?"

"He's a cunt," Sylvia told him carelessly. "He's a mechanic, allegedly. Works on cars mainly, but he has a profession for selling drugs on the side. Before you go talk to him, go to his house first. I have a spare key" (She gave that to him as well.) "You'll find all the evidence you need to put him away for a _very_ long time, and none of it is inadmissible in court. That information is there for you to use to coerce that information out of him, or to throw the piece of shit into jail as you see fit."

Jim's eyebrows raised up to his hairline.

"Did this guy insult you or something?"

"He sells drugs to kids," Sylvia revealed disgustedly. "Now, I may partner with multiple rackets who sell that shit to other people and to the Narrows, but I'm not a monster. He's a native to Gotham, knows how things are run, and he should know that I don't condone that sort of thing. His girlfriend, Jillian Dane, works as a hostess for a five-star restaurant just on the borders of Gotham, but it's within city limits. If he doesn't talk, she will. She's a flake."

"And you're telling me about her, why?"

"Victor and Alex found reasonable cause that she's involved with it."

"Can I ask how you were tipped off to any of this?"

"Jill came to my club some months ago," She informed. "She was a barmaid for me, only for a couple of days. My gut told me something was wrong; I honestly thought it was because she was too sweet for a place like this. All my tough-skinned Regulars scare her kind away too easily, which leaves job vacancies open for too fucking long so I end up losing customers."

"And you found out she was dirty?"

"Not me. Alex did."

"Alex? You mean _Rooster_ figured it out."

"I know. I was surprised too," Sylvia said whimsically. "The guy has his moments. Who the fuck knew? Anyway, Victor and Alex came back, told me what's up. I figured you'd be by to talk about either Barnes or the Fireworks, so when you did, I thought maybe you could make an arrest on my behalf."

"We're doing favors for each other?"

"We have been since you made our relationship based on quid pro quo."

He didn't even have the energy to dispel that one away, knowing she was correct. Sometimes, they did favors for each other because they were family. Other times, it was a give something for something else. As it was with anything in Gotham.

"Fair enough."

"How's Harvey doing, being in charge and all?"

"He's surviving."

"Drinking from a flask?"

"Isn't he always," Jim joked.

"I'll have to get him a pretty one for Christmas, I guess."

Jim stood and pocketed the torn piece of paper. He stepped and rounded the desk. Sylvia smiled, standing up so they could hug. It was a strong embrace, firm and loving.

"Give my best to the Mayor," Jim said politely.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"I love you, Vee."

"Love you too, Slick."

Jim started out the door, only to nearly bump into Edward Nygma, who held the doorframe steadfast.

" _Ed_."

"Detective Gordon."

They acknowledged each other in flat tones before Jim glanced at Sylvia warily, then turned to leave. Ed watched him until Jim was out of the door, then he turned to Sylvia, who looked at him readily.

"Hey," She greeted with a grin.

"Hey. Um…" Ed pointed to the door behind him. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure." She entreated, motioning for him to close it.

He did and sat in the seat Jim had preoccupied seconds ago. Sylvia scooted in her chair and sat on the desk in front of him, sensing that Ed preferred a closer encounter.

"What's on your mind, Riddles?"

"Turns out Butch and Tabitha: Not the culprits." Ed began, irked. "Butch's gun was fully loaded. No missing rounds."

Sylvia sympathetically raised her hands to his head, slicking back his hair. The gesture alone was soothing to him.

"So, no other suspects?"

"Clearly not."

"So now what?"

"I don't know." Ed uttered dryly. "I thought for sure…"

"They were good suspects."

Ed smiled. He might've felt patronized if not for the gentle strokes of her hands through his hair, how she took his glasses, folding them on the table so she could massage the area where the frames embedded themselves behind his ears. Then her fingers firmly added pressure to the back of his head; Ed lowered it so she massaged the nape of his neck.

"Come here…" Sylvia coaxed.

He moved closer to her. His head lied affably in her lap, closing his eyes. He didn't think much on it as he wrapped his arms around her, making certain to keep his hands from touching the soft outline of her ass.

"I heard you had a great performance," Ed said conversationally.

"I did."

"Did anyone get hurt?"

"It was a performance, not an excursion."

"One can dream."

Sylvia giggled at his humor. He smiled when she did.

He held her in such a way that she felt his palms finely lay on her backside, his fingers spread. After a moment, they slid down, following what would be her panty lines, to her thighs. He lifted his head only slightly, peering up at her. She looked at him with a knowing smile.

Slowly, he stood. She never once broke eye contact, lowering her hands to hold the edge of the desk.

Ed didn't ask. He simply moved closer to her, and kissed her cheek. His lips lingered, then moved to her mouth. When she didn't oppose, he licked her bottom lip hesitantly; his hands cupped her face between his palms.

First, he watched to see her reaction. But when she ever so slightly parted her lips, he closed his eyes as he deepened the kiss. His arms wrapped around her waist as he closed the distance between them, standing between her legs.

His tongue found hers. Again. And again. And again. Ed could think of nothing as he kissed her, and maybe, that's what his goal was all along. For all his meticulous wares, how he'd always be calculating _something_ (sometimes, even in his sleep), it was a moment where he found himself not having to do any work. He simply followed the same instincts that were ingrained in the deep recesses of his mind, the part of him that while he'd been obsessed with Kristen Kringle had also been preoccupied with _her_.

"Ed, I don't think…" Sylvia began in between kisses.

"Please."

She looked at him, and saw how his eyes beckoned to her. His plea spoken was not chaste; it was almost desperate, spoken shakily but not in a lustful tone but in such a way that wished aloud for refuge.

A sanctuary.

"I want to feel something other than anger," Ed said lowly.

"Is that what you want?" Sylvia asked.

"Yes."

"You want to feel less than that?"

" _More_ than that."

Sylvia nibbled her bottom lip thoughtfully. She wouldn't take advantage of a friend in his vulnerable state, but what he was begging for, that was something she could give. Freely, too. His strong hands that were on the small of her back, pushed her closer to him.

"You're not thinking clearly."

"I know," Ed murmured.

"You _don't_ want to think clearly?"

"No…"

"That's not like you." Sylvia uttered, although despite her attempts to refuse him she couldn't ignore how warm her body felt being so close to him.

Plus, on a side note, the fact that he injured Tabitha in a way that she couldn't made her attraction to him that much stronger. The ties to her self-control were slowly being undone, abandoned. When he kissed her again, Sylvia could feel his lips demanding more from her. She received him, smiling when he did. She slid off the desk, looking up at him.

"Liv—"

"I'm not saying 'no'." Sylvia said earnestly.

"You…" He began, but he was disarmed. "You're not?"

"No. We just can't do it _here_."

"Oh…Right…"

"Eyes, ears, all of that." Sylvia explained, twisting her hand to indicate the club. She took his hand; he smiled inwardly at her touch. "Come with me."

* * *

Oswald was taking a tour of a new museum that had opened up, cutting the ribbon for its brand-new opening, that sort of thing. So, when Sylvia and Ed came back to the mansion, not a lot of people were hanging around; the Kabuki twins had been released for the day, and Gabriel was back home, spending time with his parents.

Once the door to the mansion was closed, Ed took Sylvia's forearm, pulling her to him. Once her back collided with the wall, he attacked her mouth with his own. She received his rough initiative with mild resistance, but the moment she gave into it, he hesitated, the kissing abruptly stopping in its course.

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked softly.

"It's too much like…"

She touched his lips with two fingers, silencing him. She didn't need him to say it. And Ed looked upon her with admiration for her high sensitivity to a human's emotional intelligence, and how attentive she'd been to his body language to know just what the problem was.

What they were doing felt too much like his time with Isabella.

"Do you still want this?" Sylvia asked.

"I do, but I don't know how to get past the other half."

"I know. It must be hell for you." She empathized.

He uttered delicately, "Quisque suos patimur manis."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side. At her confusion, he smiled. She looked beautiful when she was angry, or happy, or sad, or even puzzled.

"That's Latin." She realized aloud. "What does it mean?"

"'Each of us bears his own Hell'."

"That's Virgil."

"Yes," Ed said, smiling at her.

At the Latin phrase, Sylvia's heart bled for him.

"It's still a Hell you have to face head-on. There's no 'getting past' anything."

"I know that," Ed responded indignantly, although he regretted the icy undertone the moment it escaped him.

She watched him, perhaps awaiting whatever his intentions whether that meant he was staying or leaving.

He looked down, between their bodies, noticing what very little distance was left. His eyes roamed from her lips, to her neck, to the rest of her body and his hand reached up, slowly rounding his fingers over her clothed breast.

The lightest touch he administered made her breath hitch in her throat.

"I also know I want _you_." He said strongly.

He kissed her again, with the same ferocity as he had before, his hand squeezing her breast, then moving up to her throat to grip that as well. Sylvia held his hand that now closed around her throat, but didn't try to pull him off. He kissed her hard; she kissed him harder, defying him. Ed pressed her harder against the wall; she sensed his more dominant side coming to play, so her aggression subsided.

But just like before, Ed seemed hesitant. The kiss broke naturally, but he let out a frustrated groan.

"What is it?"

"This feels wrong." He muttered. "But…not for the reason it should."

Sylvia smiled: "I think I know what it is."

"What?"

"Come." She tugged on his tie and he stepped to the side so she bounced herself off the wall.

Her confidence, her self-assurance…it was intoxicating. When she had such a way about her, it was easy for Ed to feel the same way. As she asked, Ed followed her upstairs. They were in his bedroom and Sylvia closed the door.

"Sit." She said firmly.

Ed's ears perked at her authoritative tone; it was not often that he was being ordered around. Not since he had stopped working at the GCPD. Normally, he'd feel enraged, being spoken to like this. But hearing it come out of Sylvia, it was titillating.

He sat down on the edge of his own mattress, watching her approach him.

"You miss her," Sylvia told him. "You miss her enough that kissing me doesn't take away the pain."

"Liv…"

"So, my suggestion is that we do everything that you didn't—or _wouldn't_ —do with her."

Her idea made his stomach lurch forward in a pleasurable discomfort. And the implication made his cock tingle with a similar sensation. She stepped forward, and—as a point—climbed on him so he was gingerly coaxed to lie on his back. Her hair fell over her shoulders, falling forward.

Ed slowly rubbed his hands over her shoulders, down her back, and grabbed her ass. When he did, Sylvia reached behind and shoved his hands away, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. Her aggressive response disarmed him, but Ed saw that mischievous gleam in her eyes, the way her smile taunted him.

"Either you take what you want," Sylvia told him. "Or _I_ will. And trust me, Pet." (Ed inhaled sharply at her term of endearment.) "I will _not_ be so gentle."

She licked his chin and gave him a teasing nip before he lunged forward, tossing Sylvia onto her back. Ed kissed her hard, his hand sliding under her shirt to touch her exposed flesh that her bra didn't cover. Her legs were wriggling; Ed anchored one of them, pressing his knee in between her legs then upwards; he heard her stuttered moan.

"Is this the sort of thing Oswald gets to enjoy?" Ed uttered softly in her ear; a huge contrast compared to his past few fervent mannerisms.

Sylvia laughed darkly, "So you _are_ enjoying this."

"Quite," Ed admitted, the word evolved into a groan when he felt her hands in his hair, grabbing a handful and pulling.

"I'm not going to be taken down that easily."

She met his eyes, and they darkened with something more than just a longing. Suddenly, his kisses became rougher, and his hands groped every part of her that he'd been waiting to feel, to touch. After Sylvia had made a few attempts of wrestling out from beneath his weight, Ed let out a mock sigh of exasperation.

"You really want to do everything that I wouldn't have done with her?" He challenged. "Are you prepared to play that dangerous game?"

"Try me." Sylvia answered breathlessly, smirking when he lowered his mouth to her neck and nipped at her collar bone.

"I want…" He began, but perhaps the idea that had come to him was a little more than what he felt Sylvia could handle.

However, she sat up; he allowed her to. When she did, Sylvia put her hand down along the waistband of his emerald green suit, following the stitching until she felt an elongated extension of himself. When she did, she moved closer to him, straddling his lap. Her slow, steady grind of her black cotton panties over his hard-on.

"What do you want to do to me?" She coaxed.

"…I…" The words caught in his throat.

Already, he could sense the difference between Sylvia and Isabella. Sylvia liked to talk more. And it made Ed both unsettled but equally just as excited.

"Do you want to strip my clothes off," She encouraged, smirking when Ed's hips lifted to meet her gyration. "Maybe put me on my back…Or…"

"Tie you to my bed." Ed groaned, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the jolt of pleasure to his cock when he thought of it.

"Oh yeah?" Sylvia whispered. "What if I tried to get away?"

"I'll hold you down."

"I'd like to see you try."

She could talk. Ed wasn't surprised to hear it. But the weight of her words, how she said them were heavily laced with a devious undertone that could drive a man crazy. And it was clear she was having fun talking to him this way. So dirty.

Ed stifled a painful moan when she climbed off his lap.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Bringing your fantasy into a reality. Stay here." She said with an impish grin.

She left the room only for a moment, presumably going back to her and Oswald's master bedroom. When she returned, she held four lavish, silk sashes; all four were black with a satin finish, sturdy enough that they wouldn't rip as she demonstrated it. And with the strength of five men, the ropes did not even tear, even though they stretched.

Ed reclined back onto the bed, balanced by his elbows as he watched her. He found her teasing affect to be mildly annoying, only because it stroked his cock in a way that no hand or tongue could. He sat up, then stood, taking the sashes away from her with the rigidity of an irritated individual.

"What—"

"Get on the bed, Sylvia." He said sternly.

She smirked at his sudden command, but played to it.

"Get undressed."

She did as she was told. While she disposed of her shirt and skirt, then her bra and panties, throwing them over the side of the bed, Ed navigated from one side of the bed post to the other three, tying the sashes around each one.

"I have a hard time believing you _never_ did this with Isabella."

She watched him undo his tie, the buttons of his shirt, rolling his shoulders back. He threw his matching emerald green coat over the dresser, pulling his vest off over his head, then sliding the buttoned-down shirt off one arm then the other. He placed all of these on the dresser with his coat.

"What I had with her was something special," said Ed, as though his voice was almost detached. "I was afraid to ruin it, afraid that I'd hurt her."

He unbuckled his belt, zipping down his pants, and those, along with his boxers, came down in one go. Then he removed his socks and shoes. Sylvia glanced at his cock, smirking when he was hard as a post.

"And what am I?" Sylvia asked.

Ed looked her over from her perky breasts and all of her soft curves.

"You?" He started on his knees, then made his way towards her, and she watched him with predatory eyes up until he towered over her, forcing her to lie on her back. "You're a lark. And I aim to make it my sole ambition to make you sing. Whether that's in pleasure…" He kissed her neck. "Or in pain."

Her body shuddered at the anticipation of either result.

"I'm going to tie you to my bed. If you fight me, I will punish you for that."

"Maybe I'd like to see what your version of punishment really is."

"I won't discourage, but just so you are aware…" Ed lowered his hand between her naked thighs, the tip of his middle and ring fingers slowly encircled her clit; the lower half of her body nearly flinched at his sudden contact. "Oswald and I have had an _in-depth_ discussion about your little weaknesses. All of them."

He curled his fingers so the pads of his fingertips rotated and rubbed just below her clit. The feel of it drew an involuntary moan from her.

"You're bluffing," Sylvia managed weakly.

Ed smiled at her handsomely, rubbing the bundle of nerves between two of his fingers.

"For once, I am. But I'm a quick learner. And if you think I won't be able to figure it out—"

Sylvia tilted her head up and quickly reached up to grab his neck, pulling him down to her. His mouth shoved against hers so hard their teeth clicked; he moaned into her mouth, feeling an overpowering need to bend to her will and yet maintain his control over her.

What little control she permitted him to have.

He pulled away from her long enough to catch his breath, to find his mind again. When he looked down at her, Ed noticed how flushed her skin was, particularly around her cheeks, neck, chest, even her thighs.

Lust. Desire.

A feverish hunger.

He couldn't help but feel a little satisfaction about that.

Not a little. _A lot of it_. He could make her just as hungry for him as he was for her. Her own body validated that.

Before she could pawn another distraction, Ed grabbed her wrist, tying it to the bed post. He did the same thing with the other hand, as well as her ankles. She tested the bonds, licking her upper lip with a taunt.

Once he finished sashing her ankle, he glanced at her. _Is this okay_? His expression read. When Ed moved between her legs with his knees against her thighs, Sylvia laid her head back onto her pillow, but her eyes still watched him.

"I have the worst urge to blindfold you." Ed confessed.

"And leave me _completely_ defenseless?" She hinted. She swirled her hips, reacting to the thought.

"But I also want you to watch."

"Watch what?"

He slinked down so he lied on his stomach. Ed pressed his palms against her thighs, his thumbs massaging the muscles closest to her pussy.

"Oh…" Sylvia whispered, realizing what he meant.

She felt his tongue before she saw it. Cold compared to her wet heat. The tip of his tongue tickled her clit, and then slid up and down between the petals of Sylvia's sex.

"Oh my god…" She exhaled. He groaned in content, tasting her sweet honey. Ed watched her mouth part open, her eyes close, and he was pleased to hear how she didn't hold back her moans.

First, he was gentle.

But then she was begging him for more.

So, Ed lashed her clit with his tongue, sliding two fingers inside her pussy, feeling the walls inside contract to keep him there.

"There…! Yes—mmm- _mmm!_ "

Sylvia's thighs quivered and shook, daring to close but the sashes tied to the bedpost kept them apart.

His moans vibrated along her clit, and Sylvia whimpered in need.

"Ohh, that's a sound I've never heard." Ed drawled. He used an index finger to quickly rub her clit, hearing her whimpers come out more frequently. "You don't have a lot self-control, do you, Princess?"

Sylvia bit her lip shamelessly, hearing his pet name. It came out so naturally, too.

Her wrists moved, trying to get out of them.

Ed watched her, wanting to keep her there. But also, to see what she was ready to do to earn what she wanted. He shuffled up to the bed posts, untying Sylvia's hands. She sat up so quickly, Ed nearly was thrown off his guard, standing on his knees over her. She reached up, bringing him down to her, their kisses were rough and ravaging.

"Fuck me, Ed." She pleaded. "Fuck me!"

"Convince me."

"…What?"

Ed grinned at her startling response: "You heard what I said."

"Untie me."

"No."

"I'll convince you, but first, you have to untie my ankles."

"Why?" Ed questioned, raising his chin and looking down at her with suspicion.

"Because from this angle, I can't suck you off and if that is something you'd like, I'll need to lay down on my stomach." Sylvia explained furtively.

There she was, being blunt, and causing the world around her to stammer and stare. Ed couldn't really disguise how turned on he was by her flagrant phrasing, but goddamn, he was living for it. He held her jaw in his hand.

"Don't. Move."

"I won't." She promised.

He slid off the bed, untying her ankles from each bed post. When he was back on the comforter, Sylvia encouraged him to lay down, her hands on his chest; he felt her nails lightly rake down to his stomach. The sensation gave him a feeling of both danger and revitalization. As she lied down, one hand held his thigh while the other held his cock.

He groaned at the feel of her fingers wrapping around his shaft; he watched her mouth close over the tip of his cock, then her tongue licked the underside of the cockhead. Already, he could feel himself coming undone. As he did with her, Sylvia moaned quietly, and the hums of her sounds vibrated around him.

Ed tilted his head back against his pillow, his back arching when she took all of his cock into her mouth. Her tongue massaging while her hand crept below to massage his balls.

"Fuck…oh, _hell_ …" Ed sighed, his moans restrained.

He reached down to grab her hair, holding a handful. When he had enough leverage, Ed forced her to swallow all of him, to the base. Then he face-fucked her. He could feel her fingernails digging into his thighs, the drool dribbling from her chin.

"That's it, Princess," Ed moaned loudly. "That's it…Oh, _fuck_ , you're good at this."

He could feel himself getting close, but he wasn't ready to come just yet. He pulled her off him, looking at her with a grin, although he was breathing heavily and a flush of color covered his skin as well.

With the same grip on her hair, Ed dragged Sylvia to him, crashing his mouth on hers. She received him eagerly, although she wiped her chin with the back of her hand. She giggled deviously when he pushed her onto her back; her legs wrapped around his waist.

He sank into her. And when he did, she let out a pleasurable keen that made his entire body shudder with a resounding power. With the way he felt, he could lay an entire army to slaughter.

 _No wonder Oswald is always in a good mood after_ , thought Ed.

He held her down, wrapping his hand around her throat. He pumped into her, hearing her moans of pleasure and pain contort into one single syllable: and it was a positive one.

He fucked her until his body felt a fatigue, fucking her until he couldn't even remember his own name or where he was when the orgasm hit him hard. Hearing her scream his name, and the way her body writhed against him, her back arching in euphoria.

He pulled out, coming on her pussy. He collapsed onto his back.

Once the orgasm had lifted, and he could breathe easier, Ed shifted from his back and sat up, noticing Sylvia was gone but she'd only just returned, wearing a baby blue robe, covering her nudity.

"You fell asleep," Sylvia said softly, handing him a glass with two-fingers lengths of whiskey. She held one for herself.

He whispered his thanks.

"How do you feel?" She asked.

"Like crap," Ed confessed. He smiled a little after, adding, "But I _do_ feel a little better."

"That's all that matters."

"How do _you_ feel?" He asked.

"Like I humped a log," Sylvia answered. "And that log humped me back."

Ed felt himself glow at her word of flattery.

"What do we tell Oswald?" He asked, already worrying.

"Nothing to tell," Sylvia returned. "He knows already."

"You told him?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And?"

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "He's pretty comfortable with it."

"Interesting."

"Not really. Since the ménage a trois, he's been pretty lax where it concerns you and me."

"And _what_ are we?" Ed asked.

"Whatever we are."

"That's not a satisfying answer."

"Well, it's the only answer I have. Friends who occasionally kiss. Friends who love each other but don't love each other at the same time? Friends with benefits?" Sylvia suggested. "I'm sorry I can't find a more satisfying answer, but whatever it is, I like it."

Ed smiled but he did so sincerely: "I like it too."

She kissed his forehead: "'Princess' was a good touch."

"I didn't insult you, did I?"

"You could call me a 'whore' and I'd still be just as excited. Honestly, I'd prefer it if you did. But 'Princess' is nice as well." Sylvia said smoothly.

"You're a very interesting woman."

"Tomorrow's a new day, Riddles. Good night."

"Good Night, Liv."

She waved at him, walking out of his room. It had been a good break from his grief, but for that amount of time, it had been a relief. Even if it had been only temporary.


	63. A Paradise

Chapter Sixty-Three: A Paradise

* * *

After attending two press conferences, three tours for a newly opened museum, middle school, and a remodeled section of the Gotham Public Library, Oswald had chosen to retire. At least, for the afternoon. When he came home to see Ed diligently working at his desk in the living room, preparing his agenda for the following week, Oswald inwardly smiled.

As misguided as his suggestion had been initially, it had worked.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mayor," Ed greeted with a small smile.

"Good afternoon, my Chief-of-Staff. In higher spirits, aren't we?"

Ed glanced at him as though he wasn't sure whether to treat him to the details of his and Sylvia's most recent rendezvous or to glaze over the incident with mild apprehension in any case Oswald wasn't in the mood to inquire. Instead, the latter broke the waning decision for him.

"Where's Sylvia?" He asked.

Ed pointed his eyes in the direction of the kitchen. Entreating from that room was a mixture of smells: roasted chicken, freshly cooked mashed potatoes—even the smell of bread seemed damn near intoxicating. Just from their position in the living room, both men could hear Sylvia singing along to a song, or rather, rapping to it.

" _I shake it like JLO, make the boys say hello_

 _'Cause they know I'm rockin' the beat_

 _I know you heard about a lot of MCs_

 _But they ain't got nothin' on me_

 _Because I'm 5 foot 2_

 _I wanna dance with you_

 _And I'm sophisticated fun, I eat fillet minon_

 _I'm nice and young, best believe I'm number one_ "

Both men glanced at each other at the selection of Sylvia's candid choices in music, more in amusement than disapproval. It was a proven fact: even when she was surrounded by high class complexities due primarily to Oswald's extravagant tastes, she still retained her own simplistic and down-to-earth preferences.

Ed put his pen down and stood a little away from the desk, asking interestedly, "How did your conference go?"

Oswald rolled his eyes, "Mildly aggravating."

"I wouldn't expect it to go any other way, to be honest. Was the media ruthless?"

"Aren't they, always?"

"True. At least they work like clockwork."

Oswald chuckled, "They arrive for the kill, leave after the slaughter."

"In that likeness, they really don't have any commonalities with the vultures they're perceived to be."

"Just the predatory trait."

"Without a doubt."

Ed smirked at Oswald, who grinned back at him. They had pleasant banter again. _That_ was a positive note.

Olga came out of the kitchen briefly, holding a few dishes in her hands, walking out with her usual rigidity. In contrast, Sylvia held a large pot of mashed potatoes as she did a little bit of a dance, singing the chorus of her preferred music number at the moment:

 _Rock it, don't stop it, everybody get on the floor_

 _Crank the party up, we about to get it on_

 _Let me see you one, two step_

 _I love it when you one, two step_

 _Everybody one, two step, we about to get it on!_

Once the chorus repeated itself, Sylvia bumped her hip against Olga's (the maid looked both startled but amused.)

Sylvia encouraged loudly, "Come on, you should know the lyrics by now. Sing it, sister!"

Oswald raised an eyebrow at her congeniality, while Ed snickered as he walked back to the desk to finish up closing the Mayor's agenda for the following week.

Olga half-sang, half-spoke the lyrics in a little broken English, only for the fact that she couldn't sing it nearly as quick as Ciara (the original singer).

When the housemaid demonstrated the slightest bit of effort, Sylvia jumped up and down: "Yeah, get it, Olga! Whoop-whoop! Whoop-whoop!"

She disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door for the rest of the entrées, leaving behind the housemaid, who peered at her boss and Ed; with an embarrassed cough, she quickly retreated in the direction Sylvia had gone.

"Never a dull moment with her around, is there?" Oswald asked mischievously.

Ed answered with a shake of his head and a smile, "Never."

With that said, there was an unspoken agreement. Somewhere between their friendship, the night that the three of them were together, and Sylvia's most recent attempt to make him feel better, Ed felt there was some type of an arrangement between all three that was never discussed, despite Sylvia's proffered statement that all parties involved who were engaged in such an agreement needed to be aware of it.

It felt disjointed in a way, yet perfect.

If things had continued that way, it might've been a paradise. Unfortunately, nothing in Gotham ever stayed serene.


	64. The Penny Drops

Chapter Sixty-Four: The Penny Drops

* * *

In the following week, Ed continued to work diligently.

While the case with Tabitha and Butch had grown cold and no other killers perceived to be linked to Isabella (that he knew of), Ed figured he'd press on. Some days were better than others where he could stay focused, prepare a few highlighted points for Oswald to share with the city, and his life seemed to be in working order.

Other days…He sought companionship between Oswald and Sylvia for their sympathy, their friendly banter, and infinite supply of compassion.

To his benefit, this was one of the better days.

In the mansion, Ed perused the agenda for the Mayor (while Sylvia currently tended to the one for Penguin at her own base of operations). He leaned over the desk, preferring to stand rather than to sit as it engaged his mind further—also, allegedly, it helped with his posture.

" _No rest for the wicked_."

Hearing and seeing Barbara enter the living room, and in his general bubble, Ed glanced up and held the pen dangerously like a weapon. As she approached with her high heels clicking along the tile, she smiled politely.

Raising her hands, she reassured him, "Relax. I'm not here to get revenge for lopping off Tabby's paw."

She took a seat in the armchair across from his desk, glancing at him pointedly as she indicated the error with her own hand.

"Although I am surprised to see you back at work and not tracking down who really did kill your lady love."

"That's because you don't see the full picture," Ed returned pointedly, tracing a 'square' in the air with his pen, which was now more operational for its intended purpose rather than for home defense. "The Mayor has many enemies. These enemies understand that I am a fundamental part of this operation. They weaken me: They weaken him."

"That's similar to what Lark says."

Ed rolled his eyes as he mindfully peered down at the current workload on his desk, muttering, "And to what, may I ask, is remotely similar?"

"The both of you are the pillars of Penguin's temple. If one of you falls, the temple does too."

Ed's ears perked at the subtle tone.

"I'm sorry. Was that a threat?"

"Not at all."

"Hmm. Why are you here, Ms. Kean?"

"Just coming over to ask how you've been doing since you found out that Tabitha and Butch weren't responsible for killing your love interest. Granted, I hear you're doing a _lot_ better. Especially since you have Lark tending to your needs that Isabella might've originally been able to meet. Not her fault though…she's dead."

Ed closed his eyes before he exhaled a deep sigh of patience. He tilted his head, saying, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" Barbara asked knowingly. She stood slowly, her hand caressing the arm of the chair just momentarily before she stepped towards him. "You, Oswald, and Sylvia…When the orderlies hear that the Mayor, the Lady of Gotham, and their Chief-of-Staff gang banged one night, people _do_ consider that gossip worthy." She shrugged with a sly smile. "Politics are _brutal_."

Ed frowned: "Not that it's any of your business, but it was only _one_ night."

"Hmm?"

He turned away from her, penciling in a few forgotten details of topics that he predicted would come up later in a future conference for the Mayor to answer easily; when he'd started to ignore Barbara, the woman became apologetic, but her mannerisms were no less intrusive.

"One night with all three—I can't see that happening. But I can't imagine you'd only spend one night with Lark. She's not exactly someone you can say 'yes' to only _once_." She drawled, smirking when Ed's shoulders rolled back uncomfortably.

"Or 'no' for that matter." She whispered.

Ed glared at her: "What do you _want_ , Ms. Kean? There has to be another reason for your inexplicable visit, however _insufferable_ it has already been proven to be."

"Ooh…touched a nerve, did I?"

"I figured that might be evident to you."

"Well, call me a little envious. You know, I tried escalating my friendship with her and she barely gave me anything. Anyway," Barbara continued (although Ed's glare didn't soften one bit), "If it bothers you talking about your sexual conquests with Penguin's wife, let's talk about something else."

"By all means."

"What are you doing about finding Isabella's killer?"

"Nothing for the moment. As I said, the clear intent for killing her was to weaken me. It doesn't matter though."

"It doesn't?"

"No. I have spies all around this city," Ed reassured coolly. "Soon enough, whoever killed Isabella will reveal themselves, and I will strike. Now…" He closed the binder with finality. "If we are through here, I think it is best that you leave. Before Liv comes back and sees you here; from what I gather, the last two visits you made unannounced were not met with equity."

Barbara shook her head as Ed placed the binder in a crook on the bookshelf.

"Poor blind baby. It's always hardest to see what's right under our noses…" She put her hand over her mouth and forcefully coughed, " _Penguin_."

Ed turned slowly, looking at her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Did you just fake cough 'Penguin'?"

She smiled guiltily.

"Needless to say, that is _absurd_ on a number of levels."

"Really? All a crime requires is means, motive, and opportunity. And between his current finances and with people like Lark backing him up on his every single desire, your beaky little buddy certainly has the means and opportunity."

"But no motive."

"Oh, I would say he had the oldest motive in the book." When he didn't say anything, she said softly, "Rich men want it. Wise men know it, the poor all need it…"

" _Love_." Ed answered, annoyed. "What does that have anything to do with…"

As he trailed off, Barbara smirked and walked a few paces towards him. He turned to look at her suspiciously.

"And the penny _drops_."

Ed gave her the most ironic of expressions and said slowly, "You are suggesting that _Oswald_ is in love with me."

"Obviously."

"That is ridiculous."

"I know. I mean, I consider you bit of a cold fish."

"Liv would have—" Ed began.

"—Told you?" Barbara interrupted with a grin. "If she doesn't know, that's pretty much a given. But if she _does_ know…Why _wouldn't_ she have told you? Now, that's what I want to know. I mean, unless she had already told you, and you took it as 'platonic love' rather than the most obvious 'romantic love'. Granted, social cues were never your strongest suit."

"No. That doesn't make any sense."

"No? It makes perfect sense if you step out of your smitten shell for _just_ a second."

"No."

Barbara held up a finger: "Follow me on this, huh? At least, consider the hypothetical seeing as it's the only other clue you're going to get in order to figure out who killed Isabella. This is a riddle you don't want getting away."

Ed said nothing so she took it as a positive response.

"Hypothetically, Ozzie sees you being taken away from him by that bookish vixen," Barbara said logically. "Naturally, he's upset. Sylvia sees this. All of us know her only ambition in the world is to see her darling husband happy, which frankly outweighs _any_ monetary value or her need for self-preservation, so she goes _out_ of her way to make sure Isabella doesn't succeed."

Ed gritted his teeth: "Go on."

"We know she's got bit of a temper when it comes to carrying out Oswald's every little whim and desire, but she isn't going to take it out on some librarian of all people. Even for love, she isn't going to go to that extent, _unless_ , of course, if _Oswald_ convinces her to do it. She'll do it because she loves him and wants to see him happy _with you_."

"That doesn't mean she'd kill her." Ed reminded sternly.

"True, but stay with me on this. Hypothetically, she tries to convince Isabella to leave you alone, even gives her a way out. But Isabella, smitten with her own green suited, walking bean pole" (Ed glanced at Barbara sardonically for her sarcastic name calling) "refuses to leave. Things get violent and—knowing Sylvia—a little messy, then _oops!_ "

Barbara pushed a book off of Ed's desk to indicate Isabella's fall off the bridge.

"And they couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again." She whispered with a small sadistic grin.

"No." Ed denied coolly. He stepped towards her. "In fact, I'm beginning to wonder what your motive is in all of this."

"That's for later." Barbara lightly touched his shoulder, picking a piece of invisible lint off, before smiling up at him. "Right now, I just want to see justice for that poor, sweet girl."

As annoyed as he was with her, his voice spoke calmly.

"Ms. Kean. I need you to understand two things." He held up two fingers indicatively. "One, Oswald did not kill Isabella…"

"Actually, I'm saying that _Oswald_ gave the order and _Sylvia_ killed her."

" _Regardless_ ," Ed emphasized coldly. "They weren't involved. And two, he's not in love with me."

"Is she?"

"No."

"Sylvia isn't in love with you?"

"No."

"You've talked about it?"

"Yes," Ed answered curtly.

"You know," Barbara said smoothly. "I do want to know something. Why _did_ you three get together that night? Was it to experiment, or…"?

"Like I said before. It's not really any of your business."

"Perhaps it was Sylvia's way of getting you and _him_ together in the same context? To kind of push you two together. She's clever that way."

"No."

"Maybe it was a drunken experience. It _was_ that, wasn't it?"

Ed frowned. So, she smirked knowingly.

"You had _just_ enough booze in your system to teeter the lines between friendship and sex, huh, Ed? Well, I guess I don't blame you, really. Oswald _does_ have charisma on his side and with Sylvia driving the two of you by your" (Barbara clicked her tongue twice, glancing downward) "I guess it was bound to happen one day, huh?"

While Ed couldn't say much to the fact (mainly because it was more or less true), he watched her steadily get closer. Barbara lightly grazed the back of her hand along his jaw.

"Oswald isn't in love with me. And Liv didn't kill her. You're wrong."

"Are you so certain? Don't you owe it to her to find out?" Barbara asked. She smirked, patting his cheek. "Let me know how it goes."

As she left, Ed stared uneasily at the wall across from him.


	65. Ed Knows

Chapter Sixty-Five: Ed Knows

* * *

Another scheduled rehearsal for yet another scheduled performance.

Jack and Joel Kabuki were dressed right down to black leather pants and combat boots; bare chested, slick with sweat even before practice had begun. When Sylvia met them on the veranda behind the Van Dahl mansion, she was half-surprised to see each of them holding a samurai sword; her eyebrows lifted with the expression.

Pointing to their extensions, she asked, "Why the fuck do you have those?"

They answered in unison: "They're for the performance."

"Why?"

"For extra flair," Jack said, holding his sword up in response. He twirled it expertly; the motion of the blade cutting through the air made a _swish_ sound, and Sylvia's head tilted to the side in curiosity.

"I guess I should've been more specific. Where the fuck did you get them and do you know how to use it?"

Joel stepped forward: "Benson."

"Paddock's accountant," Jack specified. "He had a couple left over from his hobby days, and he lent them to us."

Sylvia muttered something under her breath that the twins didn't hear, and perhaps it was best that they didn't. Whether they would be allowed to swing their swords around in the fashionable display of wielding power of blade along with destruction of flame was still pending approval as Sylvia distractedly walked past them, sitting down on a bench.

Jack and Joel exchanged understanding glances.

For the past week or so, things had been a little unsettled at the Van Dahl mansion. For firsts, Oswald Cobblepot, Mayor of Gotham and kingpin of the Underworld, had been running amuck between those two hats. The twins knew, too, that the relationship between him, Sylvia, and Ed was a little janky; mainly due to how distant Ed had become over the past few days, and Sylvia didn't understand it any better than they did.

On top of that, Jim Gordon had popped in on occasion: Once to tell her that she'd been right about Jillian Dane and her mechanic boyfriend—the two of them had been selling drugs to kids in the Narrows; Sylvia had given him enough evidence to put the two of them in Black Gate for two years. The second time Jim had come unannounced was to tell her his suspicions about how Mario Falcone was possibly infected with the Tetch Virus.

" _He's angry, Jim. You're constantly around Lee, a woman he loves. Not to mention you told Tetch to shoot his fiancée. I mean, put yourself in his shoes: how would you feel if some jackass you didn't truly understand or care for hung around her? Not good at all."_

" _It's more than that. He's_ dangerous _."_

" _He's not 'dangerous'. He's just jealous."_

" _He's also a Falcone."_

" _I know," Sylvia had said loudly, rolling her eyes. "That seems to be the go-to for all the fucking Falcones. When I fuck up or have a temper tantrum, I'm gonna start saying 'I'm a Gordon'; maybe I can use that as an excuse like the Falcones do when they think owning Gotham or hurting people is a birthright."_

That visit didn't help Sylvia in the slightest. All it did was make her brother look like a crazy jealous ex-boyfriend when he admitted to detaining the man on his own wedding day. When she finally told him to cool it and just confess to Lee about his true feelings, Jim left in a huff.

Once Jim had come and gone, Oswald Cobblepot was on the train to Worryville; he didn't keep his concerns discreet when he spoke to Sylvia about Ed's oddly distant behavior. Perhaps at this point in their business relationship, the twins were no longer viewed as a threat to him or his wife so Oswald was either content or complacent to ignore their presence when he confided in her. Sylvia's advice: 'Just act normal and if Ed brings it up, allow the conversation to happen'. Whether this helped the Mayor was unknown to the twins.

If one looked at it in a general perspective, the twins had to admire the amount of pressure that their mistress was under.

She was the First Lady of Gotham; the Paddock Family's successor (with Isaac Paddock's health slowly on the decline); she had the absolute pleasure of the occasional seemingly jealous, over-obsessed detective pop-ins; the bad attitude Charleen would send out when Isaac was never present when she came to visit him; the distance Ed placed between himself and Sylvia; the Mayor's fleeting nerves about everything in general…On top of that, Sylvia had pressure to be the best performer tomorrow night when she and the twins debuted at an opera house the size of Buckingham Palace; not to mention, Alexander Beals (Rooster) was back to becoming more and more smug after his notes on Jillian Dane had been validated.

Yes, it was fair to say that the twins could see Sylvia's mind working ten times faster as she sat on the bench, her head bowed between her hands as she slowly rubbed the back of her neck as though to assuage the tension that the other external factors caused.

She appeared ready to practice with them, to lead the rehearsal in their ultimate prime. Like them, she wore leather pants, and fishnet, fingerless gloves.

With those articles of clothing, Sylvia also wore a skin-tight shirt that hugged every curve, every toned muscle on her body; her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and tied off in a satin scrunchie.

While they didn't wear it for the rehearsal, the plan was to use black eye liner, and a charcoal/purple smokey eye.

At this point, the twins wondered if Sylvia would break under the pressure. They'd noticed a few days ago that she wasn't sleeping for nearly as long; she was the first to rise and by the time they met her on the running trail, she'd already run two miles. And she was also late to turn in, spending most of her free time at _Lean on Vee's_.

How Penguin hadn't caught onto her sleepless nights and restless days was anything short of a miracle; then again, he was fretting about Edward Nygma, these days.

"Are you sure you want to practice today?" Jack asked, rubbing the back of his own neck although more out of his own nerves than for relief.

They'd learned from Victor Zsasz to scarcely question their mistress' resolve. Aside from the smart remark that they expected would come out to defend her own self-worth, the twins were well-taught to just go along with whatever she wanted. While they hadn't suffered the whole torture-to-obey process as Butch had undergone when he'd been in Victor's clutches, the twins had long ago sworn allegiance and loyalty to Sylvia in such a way that they'd kill children if that was what she desired.

Not that Sylvia would ever want that sort of thing; she literally had helped the GCPD lock two people away for distributing cocaine to the Narrows just because a kid might possibly mistake it for powdered sugar.

While he'd expected a nasty remark, Jack was pleasantly surprised when Sylvia looked up at them; she wore a smile on her face, although it appeared less than congenial.

"Are you tired?" She asked.

"No," Joel said bravely. "We suspect you are."

"I'm always tired, fellas."

"Yeah, but…You know, you don't always have to be 'on' all the time."

Sylvia giggled and it made the twins glance at one another uneasily, only because they rarely ever heard that sound come out of her. It was a genuinely entertained, soft bell sound, and normally that only came out if Oswald was being playful. Hearing it now, the twins saw that not only was she genuinely amused by Joel's observation, but she looked as though she might cry.

"You two are just…" She searched for the word, but couldn't find it. "The performance is tomorrow night."

"Yeah," Jack nodded. "But we know every step."

"Every turn—" Joel chimed in.

"—Every twirl—"

"—Every flip—"

"—And," Jack added quickly. "We know not to throw you in the air too far. Granted, we knew that before but that didn't keep you from getting burned…my bad, by the way, er, _our_ bad."

Joel said apologetically, "Yeah, we really didn't do too good on that part, did we."

Sylvia put her hands on her hips, looking between them as she stood.

"So, what are you doing with those?" She asked, glancing at the swords.

"Benson taught us a few things," the twins responded simultaneously.

"Did he, now?"

"Yeah." They both nodded.

Jack lifted the sword indicatively, "You said if he could come up with a way to add some flair to tell you what that was. We think that adding a bit of swordsmanship will do it."

"So, twirling swords and risking second-degree burns is the final product?" Sylvia asked with a crooked smile. "I remember when you two were just starting out and one of you twisted your ankle because you spun too quickly."

"That was him," Jack said quickly, pointing to his brother.

"Great. Throwing me under the bus is a real nice touch," Joel muttered, rolling his eyes. "Look, Liv… We know what we're doing. You've seen us do shit before, and we've not disappointed you yet."

"Yet?" Sylvia repeated, quirking an eyebrow. "Does that mean you're still expecting to disappoint me in the future?"

"I uh…I misspoke."

"Huh. Well, you have a point, regardless."

"So, we can use the swords?" Jack said eagerly. He twirled it again so it made a _swish_ sound, saying, "I gotta tell ya. I think I kinda like using these for more than just performance purposes. Imagine slicing a guy's thigh with this thing."

"Dude," Joel said wholeheartedly as his eyes lit up with mischief, "That would be so sick!"

"I know, right!"

"What if—now stay with me on this—what if some fucking idiot came into the mansion and, like, he was thinking we all had guns but then we come out with a _wham!_ Stabbed in the thigh. And he'd be like 'oh fuck why, no!' And then, bruh, you'd come out of the shadows and _bam_!" Joel 'stabbed' the sword into the bench and it responded with a harsh _thud_ which was oddly satisfying.

Sylvia watched the twins mimic stabbing an intruder and doing stylish, dramatic movements of slice and dicing. They realized their enthusiasm might be met with some odd reactions so they embarrassingly coughed into their hand and looked at her with nervous smiles.

"So, what uh…I mean, what do you think, Liv? Is that possible or…?"

Sylvia smirked at them.

"You seem really into it," She said sweetly. "And I've never seen you two talk more passionately about anything other than sports and women, so…Sure. Have at it. Just please, don't hurt any animals."

"But we can use them instead of guns?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"That's bomb," Jack said happily.

"So awesome." Joel said, shaking his head with a mischievous grin. "We're going to scare this town shitless."

"If we slice 'em just right, we can make them shit _less_."

"Ha! Fuck, yeah!"

After that conversation happened, Sylvia insisted that they just go over the general rules and such for the opera house, which only took about twenty minutes. Once that was finished, she dismissed them so they could have a full day of recovery.

That, and Sylvia realized by talking to them that she really needed a day off.

* * *

Business per usual.

Oswald sat in the dining room with Ed standing beside him. They were attacking the last few items on the agenda as Mayor and Chief-of-Staff. Naturally, Ed had an answer for everything.

"And have we made any headway on the Waterfront Negotiation?" Oswald asked.

"I have spoken with the new leader; he agreed to our offer, so those photos can go back in the vault."

"They were quite saucy, weren't they?"

Ed chuckled, "I should say they were. Sylvia could be a private investigator if she really wanted to be."

"I think she would find that flattering coming from someone like you."

"That's nice of you to say."

"And how about the uh—"

"Your approval for the new casino should go through tomorrow." Ed answered promptly. "Demolition can begin right away."

"Ed, I cannot tell you how good it is seeing you back to your old self. For a moment," Oswald admitted lightly, "I thought maybe you had some negative feelings about your position here."

"As your Chief-of-Staff?"

"No. Just…at home, in general."

"I admit I was a little distant." Ed said with a small smile. "But as you said, I needed to heal. Anyway, here is just one last signature."

With the document placed in front of him, Ed's frown replaced his smile and Oswald's face mirrored his when he realized what the document represented.

"This is your resignation."

Ed could see that Oswald was startled. It wasn't often that the latter could hide his initial reactions, even if they were meant to be subtle. At least, when he _wanted_ those reactions to be seen.

"Isabella's death has altered things, and I can't continue—"

"No! Ed, I will not let you leave!" His voice shook with something more than just worry, and he stood so quickly; the moment he did, he became instantly calm. "It is not in your best interest. You have to stay busy."

Ed looked at Oswald for a moment, considering him and his words. He clasped his hands in front of him, and said carefully, "How can I say this…We're friends, aren't we?"

"Of course!"

"Since the accident…and that night that we…I never thought that this could happen but I've had the desire to become more than employer-employee. More than friends."

Oswald looked as though he would combust into a fit of joy as he said, "I have been feeling the same! I didn't want to mention it because of all the awfulness about Isabelle—"

"— _Isabella_ —"

"Right!" He said quickly. "And how things have been between us, but one cannot deny love."

And just like that, Ed retracted, gasping as he stepped back a pace. Oswald picked up on it immediately.

"What? Wh-what is it? What's wrong?"

"There's been a misunderstanding."

"But…"

"I was going to propose we become partners. _Business_ partners."

"But that night—"

"That night?"

"When you said you love—"

Ed scowled. He _did_ say he loved the two of them, didn't he? He'd said it so easily.

"I meant it in a platonic way, not romantically." He said carefully. "You and Sylvia alike are…" He tried to convey all the emotions he had between confusion, anger, vengeance, friendship—but nothing came out.

"Ed, I—"

"Excuse me."

Ed left for more than one reason. Oswald had acknowledged and validated what Barbara had said earlier. He _did_ love him. But Sylvia…had she known? Of course, she had known. What did she say when Ed had said he loved them?

 _"We love you too. Oswald loves you more though. I just like you as a friend."_

He clenched his jaw.

She _did_ know. But that didn't mean she killed Isabella. That didn't mean Sylvia wanted all of this to end the way that it did. She wouldn't have wanted to hurt him like that, no matter how much of an influence her husband had on her. That night she made him feel more than just anger, more than just vengeance; that had been the woman he'd known who could move mountains for people she cared about, who would do anything to make him feel better.

Would she have killed Isabella though? No…

Sylvia had become enraged when Ed had framed her own brother—he'd hurt her, lied to her. It didn't seem like her to lie to him, tell him that everything was fine, to sleep with him in order to make him feel more than just his sadness and loneliness for being left alone again. But...

Ed's frowned darkened as these toxic, dangerous thoughts swarmed as though one piranha smelled blood in the pool and now called its friends just as the rancher rang a dinner bell.

Could she have…?

And more importantly, had she?


	66. Helping The Help

Chapter Sixty-Six: Helping The Help

* * *

"I was right." Alex said for the umpteenth time.

He sat across from Sylvia's desk in her office at _Lean on Vee's_ , looking at her imploringly, seeking out his own validation from her lips. She smoked a cigarette distractedly; the woman's mind was always somewhere where she physically wasn't, more importantly, where he was concerned.

She had every intention of taking the day off—until she remembered to check on her club. And here she was, still, three hours later.

"Sylvia."

" _What_?"

Alex stood, leaning over the desk. She met his eyes with a hint of annoyance.

"I was right about Jill, right?"

"Of course, you were. I told you that already."

"Did you know that Zsasz has a thing for your bartender?"

Sylvia startled at the sudden change of topic, but if it meant not having to relieve her ex-boyfriend of his own incessant insecurities, she was happy to meet his flitty observations with a cool response of her own.

"I'm aware."

"When we hung out together," said Alex, sitting back in the chair lazily, "he bought us a meal. Got a cookie for your boy, Marcus."

"Sounds like him. Did he get a milkshake?"

"Yeah."

"Vanilla?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Victor's favorite." Sylvia answered listlessly. "If you ever want to make his day, get him a pepperoni pizza." She tapped the end of her cigarette against the ash tray in front of her.

Alex surveyed her current disposition with intrigue. She sat in her chair with the appeal of a casual heiress; one leg hung off the arm while the other foot seated on the floor. The straps of her snugly fit tank-top hung off one shoulder as she seemed in disrepair, but honestly, this was the most relaxed he'd seen her in a long time.

"So, Jill got a good time in Black Gate, I hear." Alex said passively, glancing from her to the desk so he could appear like he didn't care, but evidently, that smooth move didn't work on her.

"For the fifth time, yes. I told you she and her little boyfriend got time in Black Gate."

"That means I was right."

"Yes…you were right."

"So, you can trust me now…?"

Sylvia tilted her head to the side, but her eyes met his. While he implored for her to fully trust him as she did Victor Zsasz, there was something else in her eyes that looked back at him. It couldn't have been annoyance; that had been there since this morning after she'd come to the club when she'd finished talking to the twins at the mansion.

"I trust that you know what you're talking about when it comes to flaky staff members."

"But if you had to give me a good contract, you'd give it to me first?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Alex sighed irritably, rolling his eyes.

Sylvia put out her cigarette out in the ash tray, looking him over. It was the same expression Brittany or Delilah had when she wasn't understanding them. Since the last two had betrayed her and the last one's fuck toy had hurt her in a horrible way, Sylvia's radar flickered with the sense that something was up.

"What do you want from me, Alex?" She asked patiently. "You're already working for me. That's what you wanted in the beginning, remember?"

"Right. Right, that's what I wanted."

"And I gave that to you."

"Right, you did."

"But you're frustrated." She indicated his gruff mannerisms. "Obviously, it's not all you want."

"I just want you to trust me."

"And I _do_."

"Not the same way you trust Zsasz."

"And what way is that?"

"You and him." Alex stated, glancing at her and behind him as though indicating the hitman's existence in general, even though Victor was currently out of town, visiting his rambunctious grandmother. "You guys act like a married couple, so much that people assume…"

"Assume what?"

"You _know_ what."

"I do," Sylvia confirmed. "I just want to hear you say it."

"You're not fucking him, are you?"

"Is that what this is really about?"

" _No._ It's not—"

"Yes, _it is_. You're jealous of Victor." Sylvia said knowingly, lifting her leg and placing it beside the other one so she could stand. "You're jealous of our friendship."

"No, I'm not. I just want you to be…"

"What do you want from me?"

"I want…I want _you_."

Sylvia frowned when he stood and emphatically gesticulated to her. Just when she thought they had an understanding; this always came up. At least when she had this same conversation back with Edward Nygma, the man had been smart enough and understanding enough that he didn't badger her to death.

"What do you mean when you say you want me."

"In the way I can only mean it." Alex said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"So, you _are_ jealous."

"That's not obvious enough?"

"Well, you're acting jealous as I know you always are when I associate myself with another man, but you're telling me you're not jealous. Mixed messages aren't my cup of tea."

"It's not like I want you to sleep with me."

"That can't be farther from the truth," Sylvia sighed. She strode past him; Alex grabbed her.

"You don't understand! It's not like I don't _not_ want you. If you're…I mean, if you were giving, I'd be taking. Not that I would try to, or anything!"

She glared at his hand holding her arm tightly and he quickly pulled away.

"Sylvia, what can I say or do to make you want to be with me again?"

"There's nothing you _can_ say, Rooster. God, we've been through this _so_ many times—"

"—I know, but I can't live without—"

"—Well, you'll have to learn how!" Sylvia snapped, glaring him. She gestured to the office. "You work here because you want to work here. I don't _need_ you to work here for me; if you aren't happy, you can leave. But there's nothing you can say that will make me want to be with you. No words that you can use or that are in your fucking vocabulary that will make me want to be with you in any shape or form!"

"But, Sylvia—"

"No! 'But' _nothing_!"

There was a knock on the door frame. Sylvia and Alex glanced around to see Edward Nygma opening the door. He peeped his head inside the doorway and said sternly, "Sylvia, I need to talk to you for a minute."

" _We're_ talking!" Alex said snidely.

Ed glared at him coolly as much as he could. Sylvia waved him to the side and said apologetically, "Give us a moment, would you, Ed?"

"Sure." He closed the door, staying outside; but he did lean over the edge of the balcony's rail, taking in the conventional atmosphere.

Alex frowned, turning to glare at Sylvia again.

"You honestly don't feel anything for me? After all I've done for you?"

"Only the occasional minor annoyance and subtle disappointment," She responded with a sarcastic smile. "I told you before that the only relationship we will have is a business one. I'm appreciative of what you've done for me, but that's all I have."

"Just let me say one more thing."

"There's nothing you _can_ say, Alex."

"But one more thing. One more thing, okay?"

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

Alex stepped towards her.

"You mean a great deal to me. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are probably one of the best people I know…"

"Are you done?" Sylvia asked apathetically.

That took the wind out of his sails really fast. When she didn't seem to listen anymore, Alex left the office, bereft with Ed looking after him; the door was opened, and Ed stepped inside with her invitation.

"What was _that_ all about?" He asked with a fleeting interest.

"Just the usual." Sylvia said dismissively. "Alex is still trying to find atonement for his past debauchery and flaky ambition."

"When he left you in pursuit of something that didn't exist, you mean?"

She smiled: "I see you've been listening, unlike some people."

Ed watched her sit back at her desk as she perused over the past finances. When he didn't speak initially, Sylvia looked up at him curiously, insisting with the movement of her hand that he take a seat in front of her that Alex had originally occupied. When he did, she met his eyes with a small smile.

"You look handsome." She noted.

Her eyes softened, as did her tone.

Ed wasn't proud enough not to be flattered by her compliment. Hearing anything short of praise come out of her mouth was like being covered in a soft blanket, but this time around, the soft blanket had a rougher lining to it.

"What did you want to talk about?" Sylvia asked gently.

Quite the different persona than when she'd been talking to Alex.

"I wanted to talk to you about Oswald."

"Oswald?"

"Yes. If you have the time," Ed said carefully.

"Of course, I do." She said sweetly. "For you, I can make time."

"That's very generous of you."

"Don't worry about it."

She sauntered from the desk to the end table where she kept the alcohol. She poured two finger-lengths worth of tequila in a glass, offering him one as well. Ed took the offer; and she came back to the desk with two glasses, sitting one in front of him.

"What do you want to talk about, Riddles?" Sylvia asked conversationally.

"You and Oswald love each other."

"That's the dullest observation known to man."

Ed smirked, saying, "I'm just clarifying something."

"And what are you clarifying, exactly?"

"Do you love me in the same way?"

"You know I only see you as a friend, and I _love_ you as a friend."

"That's all?"

"I'm sorry. Did I send the wrong signal? I just finished talking about mixed signals with—"

"No, no, you didn't. And for what it's worth, I prefer what we have anyway."

"That's good to hear."

She seemed to relax a little more for that reason.

"Just out of curiosity, are you always this amorous with your friends?" Ed asked suspiciously.

"Not at all." Sylvia returned; the mischievous smile tugged on the corner of her mouth. "I find that I don't have many with whom I can be amorous but even if that was the case, I'd say that's a hard 'no'."

"Does _Oswald_ like me in the same way you do?"

Sylvia licked her lips thoughtfully, her tongue lingered on the corner but the smile seemed to falter. The most subtle reactions. She sighed deeply, sitting forward after she drank the glass down to its bare bones.

"Why are you asking me, and not him?"

"I did imply it when I spoke to him."

"Did you, now?"

"Yes, I did."

"And how did that go?" Sylvia asked.

Ed frowned.

This was a game, whether either of them knew it or not. What the other knew, the other didn't, and it was their intelligent minds trying to hide but seek all the while proving to be the better opponent.

"He seemed," Ed said slowly, "under the impression that I may have had more feelings for him than what I might've led him to believe."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yes, it is. But I am wondering whether or not _you_ had any part to play in that misconception."

"And what part would I have been playing?"

Ed crossed his arms, sitting back in his chair: "The matchmaker."

Sylvia snickered, getting to her feet as she poured herself another glass: "The only part I played was providing the hope and courage for Oswald to open his mind and heart to the possibilities."

"So, you know."

"I do." She nodded, turning to look at him.

"You know he loves me." Ed said bluntly. "You know he wants to be with me in the same way he is with you."

"I do."

"You know him better than anyone."

"I'd say that's a pretty good observation."

"And an accurate one?" Ed questioned knowingly.

He stood, approaching her so he was only a couple of feet in front of her. Sylvia tipped the glass and sipped from it for a moment before she placed it on the end table behind her.

"You know," She said softly. "When Jim talks to me, he always has this interrogative personality that comes into play. He's always asking me questions, and when they get a little stern in tone, I have to wonder whether he's talking to me as a brother or talking to me like a cop. Sometimes, those lines get really close to getting crossed."

She edged away from him, sitting back at her desk. Her fingers interlaced on the table.

"And you're wondering," Ed said coolly as he stood and leaned over her desk, "if I am doing the same?"

"You catch on quick, Riddles. So now…How about you tell me what you're really wanting to ask me. We've clearly shown that we're smart, but that was already a known fact. And continuing to play this game would only add insult to injury to the both of us."

Ed had to hand it to her. She knew when the game was over, but also knew when she was being forced to play one. There was something admirable about that, but also so irritating.

"How long have you known Oswald was in love with me?" Ed asked lowly.

"Since you saved him from Butch's stock revival of the Red Hood Gang."

"That's how long?"

"Yeah. That's how long he's known, anyway. Next question?"

"Is there anything he wouldn't do for love?" Ed asked quietly, smiling at her no-nonsense tone.

"You're his best friend. Shouldn't you be able to answer that?"

He straightened, knowing he wouldn't get anything out of her. _Especially_ if the answer incriminated herself or, moreover, Oswald Cobblepot. Just by talking to her, Ed was unfortunately certain that there wasn't anything she wouldn't do in order to make Oswald happy, to protect him, and to show that she was on his side for the long haul. The ride-or-die mentality was strong in this one.

He smiled; she smiled back.

He straightened his suit, drank what was in his glass, and placed it on the end table beside hers.

"Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?" Sylvia asked trivially.

"Nothing important."

"How'd the negotiation for the Waterfront go? Did the pictures help?"

"They did."

"So, the leader folded?"

"The pictures you provided were beneficial to the case."

"Blackmail can be fun," Sylvia said with a smirk. "Especially when it involves anything dirty. Did you happen to glance at those pictures?"

"They were quite provocative."

"Honestly, I don't think a photographer could've done a better job. That's sharp quality, right there."

"I couldn't agree more."

Ed smiled in spite of himself when she stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her hand was always warm; he felt that type of casual comfort through his suit. He glanced over his shoulder, noticing how Alex was drinking his heart under the table while Marcus, the young Latino new-hire, offered him peanuts to balance things out.

"Don't worry about him," Sylvia said carelessly, opening the office door. "He can be relentlessly annoying, but he's actually pretty helpful, and even a good friend when that's all he wants to be."

"Should I talk to him?" Ed offered. "I'd like to think I've become pretty fluent in unrequited love."

He smiled at her and that eased her initial disarmed reaction.

"If you think that'll help." Sylvia said, shrugging her shoulder. "Honestly, I feel like he's a lost cause where all of that is concerned."

"If it makes it easier for you, I think that'll help."

She smiled congenially at him. "Are you going to be home later tonight? I was thinking of renting that new horror movie that just came out."

"Sorry," Ed said lightly. "I think I might spend the night elsewhere. Things between Oswald and me are a bit…"

"Awkward?"

"Yes. Do you think you could…?"

"Soften the blow?"

"The fact that you're able to read my mind is—"

"—A little weird?"

"I was going to say 'enlightening'."

"Well, two for three."

Ed leaned into her, kissing her cheek one last time before he left her office. She smiled after him before she closed the door so she could get more work down.

* * *

As Ed came down the stairs, he noticed Alex finishing his fifth beer. Ed waved over Marcus and offered to buy Alex his next one, provided that the bartender wasn't inclined to cut him off anytime soon.

"He's a sad drunk, not an angry drunk," Marcus said smoothly; his Spanish accent came out mostly with his 'r's.

Ed nudged Alex in the shoulder, sitting at a pew.

"How's it going, champ?" He asked.

As he expected, Alex grumbled something under his breath.

"You know…" Ed said smoothly. "You're not going to get anywhere by hassling her."

"I'm not hassling her."

"Yes, you are, and you know you are."

"What do _you_ know."

" _I_ know how to find my way from being just her friend to being something more." Ed said smartly. He thanked Marcus when the young man placed a beer in front of Alex, who leered at his suddenly new companion with the rigidity of a steel pole.

"What do I do?" Alex complained, placing his head on the bar counter. "I've already said what I can say. She doesn't want to hear it."

"That's because everything you say comes out like you're trying to apologize to your mother so you can get your video game back," Ed said pointedly. "I should know. We've all done it. Saying everything and anything you think she wants to hear is _not_ going to earn you her respect, or her love."

Alex lifted his head, looking at him.

"She loves Penguin."

"Yes, she does." Ed said, nodding. "Because Penguin shows _her_ respect and love. Frankly, you have the bad draw since your first time with her didn't end well, due mainly to your part."

" _What's your point_? Are you trying to help me or make me feel bad, man?"

"Honestly, that last part was due to come."

"Fine. I was wrong. I already told her I was wrong."

"You told her what she wanted to hear."

"Yeah!"

"That's not what she needs to hear."

"It's the same thing."

"What she wants to hear and what she needs to hear are _not_ the same thing."

Alex blinked, seemingly realizing that the man in front of him had some idea what he was talking about. He straightened in his seat, and turned his entire body towards him.

"Tell me what to say, then."

"It's not what you say that matters. It's how you say it." Ed corrected.

"What do you mean?"

"Sylvia and Oswald were right; you _are_ a little dense, aren't you."

Alex frowned at his insult but said nothing in light of the fact that the man would get to his point really fast. And Ed did.

"Sylvia loves Oswald. And she will do anything for him. What you need to do, Rooster," He said cleverly, "is to say what Oswald says in the _same_ way he says it. Your words and tone will mirror what she sees in him and, therefore, will make her want you in the same way she loves _him_."

Alex stared at him: "What the fuck does that even mean? You know what, I guess I'll learn that eventually. Tell me what to say…Tell me, tell me…" He gesticulated impatiently.

Ed held Alex's shoulder.

"When you feel the time is right, say these words _exactly_ as I tell them to you. In _exactly_ the same tone."

He leaned forward and whispered them in Alex's ear.

Alex's eyes widened.

"And that'll work?" He asked eagerly.

"Oh," Ed chuckled. "It'll work. Trust me."


	67. Movie Night

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Movie Night

Thank you to SilverIce523 and SaruwatariAsuka for your reviews. You all keep me so young :p

* * *

It was close to nine o'clock at night when Sylvia turned off all the lights in the living room. Jack and Joel Kabuki had gone out to purchase a couple of two-liter cokes and pizza; while they did that, Gabe had returned with buffalo wings and a twenty-four pack of canned beers to split between him and the twins.

Gabe and the twins had apartments of their own, but since drinking was involved so late in the day, Sylvia recommended they stay at the mansion rather than drive home. Gabe, who was integral downstairs either way as a permanent bodyguard (especially since the Demetri debacle) was already comfortable with the idea.

Jack and Joel had expressed a minor hesitation at the idea, since the spare bedroom had normally been reserved for the Mayor's Chief-of-Staff. When they were informed that Ed wouldn't be coming home tonight, they exchanged confused and concerned expressions at their Mistress' nonchalance before they agreed to take her up on the offer of staying home and _not_ catching a DUI.

Oswald wasn't due back until much later; his mayoral hat had been set aside around 5 PM, but for the past four hours, he'd been wearing the Penguin's hat. While the crew waited for his arrival, they were back at the mansion and getting things ready for the impromptu movie night.

During these following hours, Jack, Joel, and Gabe's true selves slowly became endeared to Sylvia's casual personality; it was just easier to become complacent around someone who didn't see herself as a 'gentleman of crime' as Penguin perceived himself to be. Not to mention, between their two bosses, Sylvia worried less about the boundaries between employer and employee, or just the general perception where professionalism resided.

Because of this, their own casual demeanor showed, especially in the way they presented themselves in dress and appearance.

Despite being identical in appearance, when it came to pajamas, Jack and Joel dressed differently.

Jack, who was more forward and feistier compared to his younger brother, wore a thin, white tank top, and thigh-high loose shorts, showing off impressive muscular definition all throughout his shoulders, arms, and legs. While Sylvia couldn't tan to save her life even if she baked for twelve hours in the sun, Jack had acquired an attractive light bronze complexion, particularly on his arms. He walked around the mansion, barefoot, as he finished lighting the fireplace.

Joel was more reserved; he wore a blue plaid, flannel shirt, and navy-blue sweats. It wasn't exactly the style that Sylvia was accustomed to seeing, but it fit his more easy-going, passive personality. He shuffled around the kitchen with Gabe, going through the four boxes of pizza on the counter, slicing them into equal parts; when the fire had been lit, Jack joined them in the kitchen to take out all the beer cans and place them in the refrigerator on the side door and bottom drawers.

Gabe was in his own element. Instead of his usual casual suits, he preferred sweats, more importantly, dark teal, with black slippers. While he and Jack laughed each other to death about how they wouldn't have been able to buy this much food with the paychecks they'd once made prior to working for Penguin, Joel strolled into the living room just as Sylvia stepped off the bottom rung of the stairs.

He suppressed an amused smile.

Sylvia was barely five feet tall, but she carried three sets of blankets and four pillows; altogether, the linens loomed over her as if she were a comedic cartoon character.

Once the column of comforters started teetering like the top of a Jenga tower, he stumbled forward, catching the toppling linens.

"Why did you bring so many?" Joel chortled.

"I want you all to be comfortable."

"We'd sit on the chairs."

"Just because the victims and murderers in the movies can't be comfortable, it doesn't mean we can't be," Sylvia corrected with a sly smile. "I know you two pretty well. Once you and your brother start watching a movie, you guys are _glued_ to the screen. Besides, I will have a better view of your sweet little butts if you're lying on your stomachs."

Joel laughed aloud at her swift compliment, smirking at her playfulness as he helped Sylvia scatter the blankets and pillows on the ground except for a very large one and the last pillow being thrown onto the couch.

"What's the movie about?" Joel asked distractedly, checking the fireplace again; even though the flames had never burned brighter, he was still fussing over it, prodding the logs with a poker.

"Typical horror cliché."

He straightened, turning to her with a playful smile.

"And that is?"

"A couple go to some fancy resort that was allegedly haunted by some angry prick. Said couple see several red flags, but they willfully ignore all of them in favor of a gang bang with a weird, random girl who asks them to come to a cabin for an awesome adventure and she's obviously into drugs." Sylvia said listlessly, gesticulating dramatically. "Ghost gets horny, fucks them in their sleep, and it takes them about two hours of screen time to realize that they're getting possessed by said ghost, only to realize that the weird girl they encountered isn't real at all, but a figment of their imaginations. As the haunting in the movie steadily gets more intense, there's some blood and gore, some screaming."

"How does it end?"

"Well, if I told you _that_ , there would be no reason to watch the movie."

"I don't know, Liv. The ghost-fuck might keep my attention."

"I'm sure it will."

"So, there's no fucked-up guy running around with a chainsaw?"

"Nope."

"Or burnt man with knives for fingers?"

"Nope, but there will be a girl running around in the middle of the woods wearing nothing but a pair of little skimpy panties, telling her boyfriend to knock it off and saying something along the lines of 'stop playing games, it's not funny anymore'."

"Sounds like a horror movie cliché."

"I told you. A typical B-movie with a co-star who has C-cup tits, and only wants the D."

"And you'll be staying up for the entire thing?"

"What makes you think I won't?"

"It's just that you've not really slept that much at night and you're up before the rest of us," Joel said apologetically. "A nap might do you good."

"I'm fine."

Joel snickered at her stubbornness as he turned on the television.

There was talk on the news, pertaining to Gotham city. When it mentioned Mario Falcone's son getting shot in the back on his wedding day by one Detective James Gordon, Sylvia turned to look at the news anchor while Joel glanced at her uneasily.

"What the… _fuck_ …" She whispered.

She quickly moved to the couch, picking up her phone.

Joel raised an eyebrow: "Do you need to…?"

"Yeah, um…Just give me one sec. You all can go 'head and eat, I'll be just one moment."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Sylvia quickly stepped outside to the veranda, pulling the ends of her baby blue robe together, tying it off as she sat outside on a bench, holding her cell phone to her ear. Ironically, it went to voicemail.

"Jim, I just watched the news. They're saying you _shot_ Mario Falcone: If that's true, you need to watch your back; it won't be long before Falcone sends Zsasz after you. Also, you know… _call me back_. I love you."

She hung up, then called Harvey Bullock. He answered on the third ring.

"Hey, Little Sister—"

"Fuck your greeting, Bullock. Is Jim with you."

"Yeah, yeah…Uh, hold on…" Harvey briefly seemed to put his hand over the mic since she heard his muffled voice speak to her brother: "Your sister's calling, partner; I think she saw the news…Well, you knew she was gonna find out _some_ time…" His voice became clearer as he addressed her personally. "Liv, your brother's okay."

"He doesn't want to talk?"

"How'd you guess that one."

"Just tell him to watch his back," Sylvia warned. "If Falcone puts a hit on him, there's nothing anyone—not even me—who can stop Victor. He doesn't try, and he doesn't stop until the job is done."

"Sounds like you and Zsasz have talked about that before."

"Well, we used to do contracts together, so I think I have some insight into the mind of the most professional hitman alive so take my word for it."

"No kidding." Harvey muttered. A pause. "He won't come after _you_ , will he?"

" _I_ didn't kill Mario."

"Yeah, but that whole being-related-to-the-man-who-shot-my-son still doesn't really fly with Italians."

"Falcone likes me." Sylvia said offhandedly. "He's not going to punish me for something my brother did. That's not his MO."

"If you say so."

"I _do_ say so. Since he's with you, tell Jim that I love him before I hang up. I know he's avoiding me."

"Because you'll scold him for—"

"—Killing Lee's husband, _of course_ I will."

There was an aggressive exchange between Harvey and Jim before the latter's voice gruffly responded, "You don't understand, Vee, he had the virus!"

"Oh, not this again." Sylvia scoffed, rolling her eyes. "He was tested _three_ times and he came out of it negative!"

"He fooled the test."

"So, did he hurt her?"

"No."

"So why did you shoot him, _Jim_!" Sylvia snapped. "You're constantly putting your life in danger for no fucking reason, you know that!"

"He had a knife!"

"Did they find it!"

"No, he must've dropped it."

"Are you sure that's what happened?"

"Vee, I'm not some crazy psycho jealous ex," Jim growled. "He had a knife; he was going to hurt Lee! I had no choice!"

"You should've at least let him try."

" _What!_ "

"I'm just saying," Sylvia sighed, looking up at the sky. "At least then, it wouldn't be a 'he said, she said' fucked up situation. You know you basically fucked yourself in the ass this time, right?"

"Fuck you, Vee—I protected her. That's all that matters."

"Oh, for fuck—you're a basket case. All that matters is that you fucking shot your ex-girlfriend's husband in front of her and now every fucking hitman that wants that contract is going to come for blood, strictly _yours_!"

"You don't understand. He was infected. The virus brought out the worst part of him—his jealousy. He'd have tried to kill her anyway—"

"Because she still loves you, I know, but goddamn it. Why is it when I turn my head you're always making a mess! It's constant chaos with you!"

"Why the hell are you yelling at me!"

"Because you killed Lee's husband! And there's no way you're going to get out of this fucking _alive,_ Jim!" Sylvia shouted furiously. "You're always putting yourself in the cross hairs. Can't you just stop being the hero _one_ time? Just once, so I don't have to worry about someone trying to kill you! Is that so fucking _hard_!"

There was a pause on Jim's end which likely included Jim and Harvey exchanging expressions where Harvey was listening on the other end. Sylvia lowered the phone from her ear, staring angrily at the barbecue grill as she tried to keep her eyes from watering, hoping her voice wouldn't reflect what she truly felt. She'd rather feel angry than afraid any day of the week.

Jim's voice was softer on the other end: "Vee, I'll be okay."

If she wasn't worried about Oswald, she had to worry about Jim. Would she ever find any type of peace?

"Vee…"

"Just _please_ watch your back," Sylvia said quietly.

"I will."

"I've gotta go."

"Vee!"

"…What?"

"I love you."

"I love you too. I've gotta go."

She clicked the end button and lied down on the bench. The concrete would have felt chilly a few minutes ago, but now it cooled her flushed skin; the quaking sensation in the pit of her stomach as the nausea squeezed it with a vice-like grip.

She pressed her face against the frosty marble, closing her eyes and feeling the crisp breeze nip her bare legs. She only wore silky booty shorts and a spaghetti strapped shirt under her robe, but she felt her entire body heating up in the worst way possible.

Fear was a helpless feeling.

* * *

" _Fear is the body's response to an uncomfortable situation, Vee."_

Sylvia opened her eyes, startled. She hadn't heard that voice in years.

When she peered up at its owner, she saw that it was a man wearing a suit as he always had worn prior to his court cases; a shadow of a man whose life had long been taken during a fatal car accident; but even though she knew he wasn't alive, that didn't keep the suited apparition from being any less real as Peter Gordon stepped towards her.

He sat his briefcase on the ground, waving his hand over the bench so she lowered her feet to the floor.

Sylvia was a bit taken aback to notice that as he sat down, blood appeared on his face and his chest. Injuries from the car accident, perhaps. Despite the blood, his kind face smiled down at her as if it didn't exist; the graying hair of what had once been dirty blonde roots; cool bluish gray eyes that appeared stormy in Gotham's usual weather, and bright blue on the days when the sun shined.

"You're not real." She whispered. "You're dead. You died years ago."

"Always telling things like it is." Her father smiled.

She glanced at the mansion behind her, but she was, again, startled to see that instead of the Van Dahl mansion, it was replaced with her own childhood home. It was a two-story house, with a large blue front door, and their cow-shaped mailbox standing at the end of the street.

"Where's…" Sylvia began.

"I told you that if ever there came a time when you were ever afraid, you could always come home."

She glanced at him uncertainly.

He said softly, "And you are afraid. Aren't you, Vee?"

She nodded slowly.

When she admitted it, even nonverbal, Peter Gordon sighed and crossed his arms as he sat with her on the bench, his eyes slowly taking in the apparition of a rising sun. Even if it didn't exist, the sunrise felt good; the heat of the sun's rays providing a blanket of warmth that she'd not felt in years, even when he'd been alive.

"People go where they're most comfortable when they're scared." Peter said gently. "Some people go to a library."

She said knowingly, "Because they feel more comfortable with books rather than with people."

"Exactly. And some people go to bars…"

"Because they feel more comfortable with drowning their pain and disappointment rather than accepting who their daughter really is."

"Yes…"

He smiled at her, although there was a remorseful sadness in his eyes that reflected at her.

"You've grown so much since I last saw you," He uttered, touching her face with the palm of his hand, and placing a string of abandoned red hair behind her ear.

"It's been years. And you died." Sylvia said smartly, pushing his hand away.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, unaware that he was really doing it. She looked confusedly at him, and he said softly, "It has been years since I really saw you. I suppose…I suppose I never took the time to see you…the _real_ you."

Sylvia hardened her expression at his hasty apology. Her father was dead, but this one seemed to recognize his past wrong doings in a heartbeat when the former existence of her late daddy dearest couldn't even look her in the eye and say those words with the slightest bit of remorse.

"Why are you here, Daddy?" Sylvia asked painfully.

"I don't know." He said mysteriously, brushing a hand through his hair.

"You don't know? You're the one who came to me first, you brought me here."

"I didn't bring you or us anywhere, Vee. You did."

"I was—"

"You fell asleep." Peter hushed gently, rubbing the small of her back with a gentle comfort. "You're dreaming."

"I was awake. I just laid my head down for a second—"

"And you've not been sleeping much; it caught up with you."

"I've dreamt of weirder shit when I've been tired and stressed." Sylvia said coolly, glancing him up and down. "Why the hell would I dream about you of all people."

"Like I said…People retreat to the places they're most comfortable when they're scared."

"You're the last person I'd have gone to. Even if you were alive."

Peter flinched at her icy tone, but he said understandably, "So why am I here now?"

"It's a dream. I have no control over any of this."

"Dreams are just your subconscious writing stories about what it wants you to know."

"That's bullshit."

Peter Gordon frowned: "I see your mother's absence hasn't done anything to fix that tongue of yours."

Sylvia chuckled, getting to her feet. She turned around to look at him.

"See. There's the dad I know. Always critical, picking on every little fucking detail about me. That's why I never came home when I was scared; there were better places to go, better people to talk to—you'd only reprimand me for leaving in the first place, and we'd go back to pretending everything was fine when it wasn't."

"You came home though. You always came home."

"Of course, I did."

"If you hated living with me so much, then why did—"

"Because of Jim, Dad!" Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. She crossed her arms when Peter stared at her, surprised. "You were a hypocrite—you always tried telling me to open my mind, and look for the better parts of people, but then you berated me for doing something as small as cheating on my test, or taking five dollars from a fucking register."

"That was a crime, Sylvia!"

"I was a kid!" She shouted, her voice cracking. "I was only fifteen! And instead of trying to understand me or even try to figure out why I was acting out, you threw me in Juvie for six months! While everyone else was having fun at summer break, I was getting my ass beat by arsonists and frat boys who didn't know the difference between 'yes' and 'no'!"

"I tried teaching you a lesson; I had your best interests at heart, I—"

"It was the worst time of my life!"

"Your mother—"

"Fuck Diana! Mom might've gotten into bad, fucked up shit, but you were by far the worst thing to ever happen to me! I hated coming home! I hated it! The only reason I ever did was because of Jim!"

Sylvia quickly rubbed her cheek, feeling fresh tears rolling down, stinging. Peter stood, pacing the veranda before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, contemplating a few things that had been brought to light. Sylvia sat on the bench grumpily, staring a hole into the ground.

"If you hate me so much, why are you dreaming about this house?" Peter asked, gesturing to her childhood home.

"How the fuck would I know. I didn't even know I fell asleep."

"Well, you're under a lot of stress—"

"How the hell would you know anything about what pressure I'm under?"

"Well, I'm in your dream, sweetie. The thing about being a figment of your dream is that I know a few things about your life and your psyche…including the thing you're trying desperately to ignore." Peter said softly, smiling when Sylvia glared at him indignantly. "Or the thing you're hoping I won't acknowledge as your father.

"This love of yours, for example." He sighed, sitting beside her. "Oswald Cobblepot. That's his name, right?"

"Don't."

"I'm just trying to get a feel for the guy."

Sylvia chuckled, "Well, let's cut to the chase. You wouldn't approve."

"I probably wouldn't. He's a criminal."

"Yes, he is."

"He manages other criminals."

"Yep."

"He's the embodiment of everything our family is against."

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively, saying, "Well, he's part of _my_ family, so I don't think that really makes a difference anymore."

"I'd hope you'd end up with someone more honorable." Peter raised his eyebrows and exhaled deeply. "Someone like—"

"—Like you? Or Jim?"

"Something like that."

However, despite his clear disapproval, Peter smiled as he reached behind his back, and pulled out a picture frame; inside it was a photograph of Sylvia and Oswald at their own wedding. He placed the picture frame in between them on the bench, gesturing to it.

"He's not the type of man I'd have hoped you'd end up with, but…He loves you, doesn't he?"

"Yes." She nodded emphatically. "He loves me a great deal."

"He has a knack for criminal history, doesn't he?"

"He's an honest criminal, if that means anything to you."

"Well, I may not really know this Oswald of yours, but if he treats you a lot better than I ever did, I guess I can give him a little leeway."

Sylvia let out a breath of laughter, smiling at him through her tears. Peter wrapped an arm around her. The sun's natural warmth became more of a soft, feathery embrace as though the figment of her father was the actual sun itself; a glow of light filled her heart and Sylvia smiled when he held her against him tightly.

"Do you know why you came home?"

"No…I still don't…"

"You came home to be with your brother."

Sylvia glanced around their surroundings: "But he's not home."

"And his absence in this dream is the symbol of your fear. You're terrified of being alone."

"But I like being alone. People exhaust me."

"That's not the type of 'alone' that I meant."

"What is it, then?"

"You're a strong woman, capable of many great things. You're independent and self-reliant, and I've never been prouder of you. But that doesn't stop you from having weaknesses."

"Dad, stop."

He held up a hand. She silenced. That hand gestured behind her. When Sylvia turned, she saw an apparition of Jim and Oswald standing in front of her; they looked in her direction, but they didn't look _at_ her. They especially seemed eerily calm with their sudden appearance.

"Fear is not only the body's response to an uncomfortable situation. It's a way of acknowledging that you are only human." Peter consoled. "There are only two people who truly see you for what and who you are. Or…Are there three?"

As he said the number, Edward Nygma appeared beside Oswald, who smiled at him lovingly.

"Daddy, I don't know what you want me to understand."

"Understand the thing you're trying not to acknowledge, that you are afraid of losing your brother, your husband, and your best friend. You're hiding your fear behind anger: berating your brother for shooting Mario Falcone, for example. It is easier to hide behind anger than to admit when you're afraid—it's the Gordon way, I understand."

"So, I'm afraid of losing the people I love. That's anybody's fear, isn't it! If any one of them died, I wouldn't know what to do."

"But that's not what you're afraid of."

Sylvia stared at him uncertainly, and she was feeling the familiar sensation. The same sensation that came when she knew Demetri had done the unforgivable.

"If you know what it is, tell me." Sylvia said sharply. "Earlier, you said you never saw me. You never understood me! How can you stand there and tell me what the hell I should be afraid of."

Peter snapped his fingers so only Oswald remained. And it was a strange sensation that came to pass over her. She saw him, but didn't recognize him…His raven hair, aquamarine eyes staring back at her, and the way he smiled—all of that was familiar, but she couldn't feel anything as he held her hand. That disconnection pulled at her heart, and Sylvia had the worst urge to cry.

"You're afraid of not being able to connect with him ever again," Peter stated. "You'd be robbed of all your memories, the success you've shared, the tragedies you've suffered together."

"Stop…" Sylvia pleaded, glancing at him.

"But we must dig a little deeper."

"No…"

"Because as I said before, I'm part of your dream world. I know better than yourself what you are truly afraid of."

"Please, _don't_."

"Your fear isn't losing your husband, your brother, or your best friend." Peter said softly, standing behind Sylvia, who glanced at him worriedly. "What Oswald offers is both a father's and a husband's love, a safety net, a friendship and a trust that neither me, Jim, nor Edward Nygma have been able to offer. Do you truly want to acknowledge your fear?"

"No."

"No?"

"No!" Sylvia heard herself argue back, but she wasn't aware of her lips moving, or the words leaving her mouth.

"Because," Peter whispered, "You know that once you acknowledge it, you're afraid that it might become a possibility."

In front of her, Oswald smiled at her sadly. It was a heart-wrenching expression that made the hairs on Sylvia's neck stand on end, a cold chill ran down her spine. Slowly, Oswald started fading away, becoming transparent.

"Wait, what's happening!" Sylvia whimpered.

Peter sighed, "You're acknowledging it, finally."

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are."

When Oswald had disappeared, Sylvia turned to look at Peter, her face full of fury and betrayal.

"Then tell me what the fuck it is, _dad_!"

Peter sent her a stern gaze, but he held up a hand and pointed across the way. Sylvia turned to see what it was. When she did, she saw Oswald with someone else. It was another woman, although she was faceless and there were no defining features about her.

Peter placed his hands on Sylvia's shoulders and pulled her into him as fresh tears rolled down Sylvia's cheeks. Oswald was happier with this woman, it seemed, and it broke her. And a few more figures populated around him; Jim Gordon, smiling and laughing with Leslie Thompkins; Edward Nygma materialized and spoke congenially with Harvey Bullock. All the while, Sylvia felt as if she was an apparition herself and she looked down at her hands to see that now _she_ was starting to disappear.

"Do you know what you're really afraid of now?" Peter asked somberly.

"I'm afraid of being forgotten."

"Close. You're afraid of being _abandoned_." He patted her back. "But being forgotten in a world of people you know is _far_ worse than being alone, I suppose."

Sylvia frowned, glaring at him: "Why the fuck would you show me this! How can I benefit from knowing that the moment something happens to me, people will forget all about me?!"

A weird twisted smile appeared on her father's face, and she stepped back, startled.

"Abandonment issues are absolute hell, aren't they?"

* * *

"Liv, wake up!"

Sylvia threw her hands up, pushing away her father, opening her eyes only to see that she'd shoved Gabe away. Gabe stared at her uncertainly, stepping towards her again; his hands held out cautiously as if she was an injured animal.

She looked around, realizing she was awake, nearly hyperventilating.

Gabe quickly sat beside her, patting her back.

"Hey, it's okay!" He comforted.

After a few minutes had passed where she realized she was no longer asleep, Sylvia put her head against his shoulder. Her skin was cold, and she shivered. Gabe stood, and he encouraged her to come back to their small party.

"What happened?" She asked, walking inside the mansion. "How long was I gone?"

"Twenty minutes or so…But when you didn't come back inside, we got worried."

"Oh…"

"You look like you were having a crazy dream. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I am. Thanks for waking me up."

"Looked like it was a doozy."

"It was. So, thanks again."

"Do you want to start the movie?"

"Sure."

Sylvia smiled when he offered her a beer, but she declined. She didn't drink beer. Instead, she poured herself a glass of Diet Coke and strolled into the living room, smiling when she saw Jack and Joel sitting on the floor on top of the comforters, grinning broadly at her. They were eating pizza, wings, and drinking beer.

They were halfway into the beginning credits, when the front door opened. Gabe grabbed his gun that he'd stuffed inside the armchair while the twins leaned forward to gather their samurai swords that had been stacked in front of them; meanwhile, Sylvia craned her head over the back of the couch to see Oswald storm inside, only to be stopped abruptly by their odd movie exhibition.

"Hey, Boss!" Gabe and the twins greeted.

Sylvia waved, "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi." He looked at the blankets, food preparation, and the movie, which had been paused at his interruption. "What the hell is this?"

Gabe quickly stood to explain, but Sylvia waved him away.

"Movie night," She said simply. She wiggled her feet under the covers indicatively. "Wanna join, Love?"

"I'll pass." Oswald said briskly, rolling his eyes. He grumpily moved upstairs.

The twins glanced at each other uneasily while Gabe looked pressured to explain himself. Sylvia sighed, getting off the couch.

"Don't start the movie yet." She warned, pointing at all three of them.

"Sure thing," Gabe promised.

She quickly left upstairs. When she did, Jack leaned forward and whispered, "If we remember where we stopped, we can just go 'head and watch it and when they start to come back, we can go back to the place we left off."

"That's dishonest." Joel chastised.

"Yeah, but I saw the back of the DVD, and the ghost demon incubus chick is fucking hot."

Gabe stood and grabbed the remote from Jack, who looked severely oppressed by his actions. Gabe waved the remote, saying, "We ain't going to watch the movie until she comes back."

"Kiss ass." Jack grumbled.

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot had too many things to worry about and the movie night barely broke Top 50 on that list. What he wanted was for things with Ed to go back to normal.

" _Can't we go back to the way things were? You're my best friend, I don't want to lose you."_

 _Ed had quickly hugged him and whispered sincerely, "You're my best friend too, Oswald. Remember that." And with an abrupt departure, he had gone._

The last time he saw Ed hadn't really left Oswald with a comfortable feeling. Every time he thought of their last communication, it made him nauseous with regret as he fretted over every detail.

The way Ed looked when he appeared, how his dark eyes were cast with a shadow of doubt and just general sadness. Was it because of Isabella's death that those dark amber eyes stayed so solemn, or was it because he _knew_ things wouldn't return to normal after his love declaration had been brought out into the open? Oswald chewed the inside of his cheek nervously as he shampooed his hair in the tub; there was plenty he wanted to say, but he doubted Ed wanted to hear any of it.

What could he do? What could he say? Should he not have said _anything_?

He'd chosen bravery over cowardice. That should've been worth something. But so far, all Oswald felt was a nagging chastisement of nonsensical regret—perhaps he'd been wrong to bring his love for Ed into the light. Perhaps it should've remained a secret shared only between himself and Sylvia.

 _Sylvia_.

A part of him wished she hadn't encouraged him to tell Ed his true feelings. None of this would've happened if he hadn't said anything; things would just have been normal, and they would have stayed friends.

But weren't they still friends?

" _If you stay in that tub any longer, you'll turn into a raisin."_

Oswald jumped, looking up from the bath water to the door where Sylvia seemed to have been standing for a little longer than he might've preferred. She closed the door with a gentle click, smiling kindly at him.

"Why are you here?"

Sylvia shrugged: "I wanted to give the 'peeping Tom' thing a try, but I guess getting caught isn't part of it. I must be bad at this."

Oswald sniffed at her poor attempt at humor, glaring at the water faucet and the bubbles that circled around it. She sat on the side of the tub, peering down at him.

"Did you talk to Ed?" She asked softly.

"I did. And guess what."

"What...?"

Oswald met her eyes, and he frowned: "You've talked to him already, haven't you?"

"I have."

"So why are you leading me to tell you what you already know?"

"I was hoping it might give you a chance to tell me what you're feeling, get a few things off your chest, at least."

"You can't sense it from my tone?"

"I'm sensing a _lot_ from your tone: sarcasm, spite, resentment, although I feel like most of that is being aimed at _me_." Sylvia said patiently, crossing her arms loosely over her stomach. She shrugged, adding, "But you're right: Ed _did_ talk to me today, at my club."

"Well, then, there's nothing to tell."

"Darling, just because he doesn't feel the same way right now doesn't mean he won't later."

"I don't think that's how it works."

Sylvia brushed a hand through her hair; the ginger mane of hers had grown a lot in the past couple of months, mid-shoulder length. And while she didn't wear any makeup currently, there was a certain youthful glow about her; her eyes bluer than usual; and the color of her baby blue robe and matching shorts and top brought out that stormy gray in them. Oswald briefly observed her, wondering if she was taking vitamin supplements and if her hair had grown due to this or if she wore extensions.

Earlier, he was feeling resentful towards her for having placed this obstacle of emotion in his path, but if anything, he was more than grateful to have her by his side and withstand his snippy responses. She understood that he wasn't feeling his best.

Seeing her sit on the side of the tub, and her body twisted at an angle where her shirt tightened against the curves of her hips, the unintentional dip of her shirt was low enough that Oswald could make out the outline of her breasts.

She caught him noticing.

"What are you looking at?" She asked knowingly; an impish grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Nothing."

"Hmm. Anyway, I know you're a little grumpy, and I understand why. But…Your peeps downstairs are waiting for us to come down there and watch a movie. They've been dying to see it, so perhaps we should head down there soon, otherwise they'll start it without us."

Oswald raised an eyebrow at her: "What do you mean they're waiting for 'us'? I didn't say I was going to watch a movie."

"No, but I think it'd be good for you."

"What, another distraction?"

Sylvia sighed, "You're telling me you're feeling like shit and you don't want to feel better?"

"That's not what I'm saying. But why would a _movie_ change the way I feel."

"Because it's a horror movie."

"And?"

"And people who are less lucky are going to be torture fucked by a random ghost who feeds on sexual frustration and humans' suffering and I feel like that's something you might really want to watch with me right now."

Oswald cracked a grin: "That is, by far, the most interesting pass you've ever made at me since we've been together."

She beamed at his approval.

"Fine." He moved forward, getting out of the tub. "Could you hand me a towel?"

"Sure thing, hun."

She stepped a few paces to the wall, grabbed the towel off the rack, handing it to him. He balanced himself against the sink, drying his body; all the while, she watched him with a small flicker of mischief.

"What are _you_ looking at?" Oswald teased, grinning at her.

"Oh, you know. 'Nothing'," She drawled, winking at him, before she left the room and headed downstairs.

* * *

Once Oswald and Sylvia had come down to the living room, Jack and Joel alike offered him pizza, wings, and beer (he took two out of the three since he didn't care for the last). Sylvia left briefly to the kitchen and came back, handing him a regular coca cola. He kissed her cheek thankfully while she sat back against the couch, tucking her feet underneath her.

Gabe started the movie from the beginning (even the credits). Things were going so smoothly until she felt her phone vibrating against the cushions. Letting out a detestable growl inside her throat, she politely excused herself, moving to the kitchen.

"Hey." Jim said softly on the other side.

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself; her dream-turned-nightmare brought about a small reprieve.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Everything is fine, I'm just at my apartment."

"Oh…that's good. So, why are you calling?"

"Look." Jim began uncomfortably. "Look, I don't expect you to understand why I did what I did—"

"—You really think Mario was infected?"

"I don't think. I know. The way he was acting, everything was exacerbated by the virus. The jealousy he already felt was there but once he was infected, it became incomprehensible."

"Jim."

"Yeah?"

"Mario loved Lee."

"Yeah."

"He wouldn't have hurt her."

"You don't know what this virus can do to people. It brings out the darkest part of them, the part that is weakest. Like Barnes and his passion for justice; Mario, and his jealousy towards Lee because of her feelings for me, and—"

"It brings out their weaknesses?" Sylvia interrupted him, startled. "Like, in what way?"

"The part of you that you have no control over, basically. Vee, are _you_ okay? You sound a little anxious."

"Oh yeah!" She laughed nervously, sitting down in the dark kitchen. She bit her lip, mumbling, "Actually, no. Um…This virus sounds really bad, you know. Barnes was a pretty good guy; he was a prick at times, but he was good for the most part. And Mario wasn't a picnic, but as much as he was around Lee, I couldn't imagine that he would try to hurt her."

"So, what's your point?"

"What if you get infected?"

"I won't."

"Barnes didn't know he was infected until a lot later, you said. How do you know if you are? How do I know if _I_ am. And, even if that happens, how could I tell if you or I were infected? How do either of us know what our weaknesses are or the parts of us we have no control over, or what—"

" _Vee_."

"Huh?"

Jim was silent for a second, as if he was trying to understand why he suddenly heard his sister's voice shake on the phone, why he could sense that something was terribly wrong.

"Are you _really_ okay?"

"Yeah."

"Vee, I can hear it in your voice."

Sylvia glanced up in the direction of the living room; soon, one of the gentlemen would be coming in to see if she was alright if she stayed away too much longer. And as often as she confided in Oswald, this felt like a conversation she only could and should have with her brother. She licked her lips anxiously.

"Jimmy…"

"Yeah?"

"When you were dosed with that Red Queen shit after Tetch attacked you, you said you had a vivid hallucination. You said you saw and talked to Dad."

"Yeah, it was a trip."

"Well, I feel like I had the same thing happen to me."

Instant panic struck a tune in her brother's voice as he said worriedly, "The Red Queen?"

"No! No, no…I mean, I just had a dream and you were in it, but it was mostly Dad."

"Oh...?"

"I mean, I mostly yelled at him, and told him that I only came home because of you, not because of him, and I yelled about what happened when he found out I took money from the register."

"Oh," Jim winced. "Yeah, when he put you in Juvie for six months."

"Yeah."

"And how did that go?"

"He tried gaslighting me, saying that he was doing it for the best. Anyway, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I just wanted you to know that I was only angry earlier because I care about you and when you put yourself in danger, I want to help you, but I don't know how, you know? And it's…terrifying to me when I can't."

"I know."

"Jim."

"Yeah?"

"I'm afraid that I will lose you, or that I will lose Oswald, and I don't think I am strong enough to be alone if either of you left me," Sylvia whispered, the pain in her chest from her dream slowly came to tug on her throat; a small warning that she was about to cry again. "God, I sound pathetic. I just want to go back to when things were simpler, you know? Does that make sense or am I fucking crazy?"

"No, it makes sense. But it really brings things to light."

"Like?"

"When you get pissed, you're really just scared or sad."

"Well, when I get pissed, I'm normally 'pissed', but I get what you're trying to say."

"Also, I think we both know what that virus might bring to light, if either of us _did_ get infected."

"Yeah," Sylvia nodded. "The inner killer in you."

"And your overprotective-turned-psychopathic urge to protect the people closest to you," Jim uttered. "Not to mention your weird eager need to make Penguin happy any chance you get, which honestly, would probably be the most annoying part about you if you were infected."

"That's big talk coming from someone who really just wants to go around murdering people," Sylvia said with a small smile, sensing his tease.

"Well, this was a nice talk. I think that about completes the circle, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Um…Do you—er—Never mind, it's a stupid question."

"No, what is it?"

"Do you ever, you know…Do you ever miss Dad?" Sylvia asked quietly.

"You know I do. Do you?"

"Not really. But I did for a little bit, when I saw him in my dream."

"What changed things for you?"

"When he called me 'Vee'."

"Why do you think _I_ call you 'Vee'? It's the only part of Dad you don't mind keeping around."

"Shut up, Jim."

He genuinely laughed on the other line. Sylvia smiled and said, "Be careful, okay? If you need anything, let me know. I don't have much pull when it comes to Falcone and his contracts with Victor, but if there's anything you need, call me. Okay?"

"Sure thing. I love you."

"I love you too. Talk to you later."

She hung up and smiled at the phone. Sometimes, it took a gut-wrenching nightmare to pull their family together. What else would it ever come to?

* * *

Sylvia returned to the living room, just as the first act of the movie was finishing. Oswald was snuggled on the couch under the blanket, wearing his usual matching black top and bottom pajamas. Feeling her presence, he glanced up and she decidedly joined him, squeezing between him and the back of the couch.

Gabe was on his fourth beer, snickering at any time when the demonic ghost would move a door, scratch the walls, and the dense couple would terrifyingly whimper around for the remainder of the night before falling to sleep. This would go on for several more acts to 'gather suspense' but it was a snicker fest between Gabe and the Kabuki Twins, who were on their third beers; they still ate wings just to eat wings, and to occupy their hands, pretending they weren't getting spooked by the ghostly hauntings.

Oswald's body was warmest compared to hers. She cuddled closer to him.

Being this close to him was tempting not to try something, especially while the other boys were distracted by the movie and they were hidden in the darkness and cover of the blanket. Sylvia nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip, tracing the outline of Oswald's back with her hand in soft strokes; her hand slid under his shirt, her fingertips grazing over his bare chest and then down his stomach.

"If the woman knew better, she'd just fuck the ghost and be on her way," Jack said warily. "I mean, that's all the demon wants, right?"

"The demon wants to fuck, but he also wants to possess them." Joel remarked pointedly. "In order to do that, he must break one of them down, get them vulnerable, and then when he does, he can move in. It's like…It's like buying a house and until you negotiate with the realtor, you're really only window-shopping."

Gabe chuckled, "That's a good way of putting it."

"Well, two ghost busters, here. Ha-ha." Jack scoffed, rolling his eyes. "If ya'll are so smart, why don't you just _remake_ the movie."

"We're not talking down the movie," his brother said defensively. "If the ghost got what he wanted, the movie would end in five minutes."

"Just saying."

"Just watch the damn thing, dude."

"Fine, fine. But I was _just_ saying."

There was a grumble between the brothers before they rolled their eyes at each other and continued watching the movie in silence. Meanwhile, Sylvia's hand softly massaged Oswald's hip closest to her, placing her chin on his neck as she lightly suckled on his earlobe. With her other hand, she laced her fingers through his feather-soft hair, smiling inwardly when she heard a soft sound of contentment escape him.

He appeared to be content, at least. His eyes remained on the television, but there was the slightest mischievous tug on his mouth where he was all too spun up on Sylvia's tricks. He lifted the covers to their shoulders; once he did that, he took her hand that had been rubbing his hip and moved it down where a semi-erection had tented in his pants.

She shied away from his direct approach; her face flushed, burning. Honestly, with the way Oswald had been feeling earlier, she didn't think he'd be taking the control from her so quickly.

The twins and Gabe spoke aloud about the events that had taken place in the movie so far, but their words fell on deaf ears.

Sylvia grinned when she felt Oswald's hand slowly move hers over his hard-on. The way he persuaded her even without telling her to, the command all but spoken. Doing as he asked, she wrapped her fingers around his clothed cock, stroking him.

From this angle, he could imagine it was himself doing it, feeling her grip on him, the way her hips pressed against his almost as if by instinct. Oswald could imagine her fucking him on this couch; forget the fact that the minions were watching a movie within a few feet of them.

As tempting as it was, they needed to be a little more than discreet.

Her hand slipped inside his pants, stroking and rubbing his cock. His eyes closed as his head leaned back against her shoulder.

Then, there was a knock on the door.

Oswald hissed, " _Fuck_."

"Shh-shh…" Sylvia cooed, quickly licking his jaw.

"Who's at the door!" Gabe grumbled, stumbling to his feet. He caught the chair but he completely fell over.

"Well, if it's a threat, I doubt either of you could neutralize it." Sylvia drawled, smirking when the twins got up to show their worth, but they were on their sixth beer by the time the movie had presented itself in the fifth act.

"Stay here." She uttered, smirking when Oswald sent her a pointed glare.

There was _no_ way he was going to get up and reveal to their subordinates what she'd been accomplishing under the guise of their cuddling.

When she came to the door, she opened it, smiling a little when it was Edward Nygma.

"Hey." She greeted.

"Hey. I just came here for a few of my things."

"Where are you staying?" She asked.

"A hotel."

"Alone?"

Ed said slowly, "Obviously."

"Ooh, sorry. Didn't realize you were being touchy tonight. Do you want to come in or are you going to camp out here?"

"I was hoping you could get them for me."

Sylvia tilted her head and sent him a sobering expression to which Ed said defensively, "I just don't want things to be awkward right now. If I go in there, he'll want to talk to me."

"Of course, he'll want to."

"Just _would_ you?" He gesticulated towards her.

"Fine. Wait here, then."

Sylvia kept the door slightly ajar. Oswald looked at her curiously; she bypassed the couch in favor of the upstairs bedrooms. She was only gone for a few minutes before she returned with a small suitcase and she stepped outside of the mansion, closing the front door in the process so the other gentlemen wouldn't hear or see who she was talking to.

"Thank you," Ed said stoically.

Sylvia crossed her arms, bracing herself against the cold wind that crept past her.

"So, you're just going to _avoid_ Oswald while you get over what exactly?"

"I don't feel the same way towards him, Liv."

"So, _tell_ him that. Don't be this type of person. It took a lot of guts for him to come out and say it. At least just tell him you want to be friends."

"It's not that at _all_. And I'm not being any type of person."

Sylvia sent him the same expression and Ed frowned. He stepped forward and she looked up at him with a small challenging smile.

"Who's going to be the Chief-of-Staff while you take your mini vacay?"

"Tarquin Stemmel will be acting in my stead."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow: "That little press _bloodhound_?"

"He's a formidable substitute."

"He's a reverse puffer fish who swells whenever he can put himself in front of any reporter who isn't already sucking his dick."

Ed involuntarily snorted as he said, "I didn't realize you despised him so much."

"Why do you think I chose to act in your stead when you were grieving over Isabella? I'd rather split myself in half than allow the media to pander to his antiquated sense of sycophancy."

"Amusing, Liv."

"I'd rather cut off my head and use it as an ornamental piece for a Christmas tree than use Tarquin as your successor."

"Again: amusing."

"I'd rather drill a hole into my hand and use it as a petri dish than talk to him."

"Liv, stop."

"I wish you'd stay and listen to other things I'd rather do than have to consult that piece of crap than leave tonight. Are you _sure_ you can't just talk to Oswald? Like a grown-ass man."

"It's easier said than done."

"Is it?" Sylvia questioned. "You're a logical man, Ed. This…This is childish."

"If you knew what I felt, you wouldn't be so quick to judge."

"I'm just saying…"

"I hear you." Ed reassured. He held out a hand and she took it curiously as he shook it. "I just have a few things to sort out and then I'll be back."

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

"Just great." He said with a smile. "I'll be seeing you."

"Likewise, I guess. Stay warm." She waved as he walked away and got into his car.

* * *

When she came back inside, the movie had been paused for her benefit. Sylvia moved to join Oswald on the couch; he scooted back against the couch and permitted her to slide under the covers in front of him. Once the movie started, the twins were back to staring at the screen; meanwhile, Gabe was asleep in an armchair.

Sylvia flinched a little when Oswald's warm hand rubbed up her thigh, stroking in soft concentric circles. In the time she'd gone to talk to Ed, his hard-on hadn't gone away; the evidence was nudging between the back of her thighs.

His lips pressed against her ear as he whispered, "Do you feel that?"

"Yeah…"

She pulled the covers back to her shoulders: one, to cover them completely; two, to warm herself up from being in the cold too long.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling a little. She tilted her head, so his lips followed the outline of her jaw; she moved closer to him, smiling when he met her mouth with his, kissing gently and slowly; he groaned inwardly when she sucked on his tongue; it prompted his other hand to move from her hip and over her tank top, circling his fingers over her clothed nipple.

He cupped a breast under her slip, squeezing.

"So soft." He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, then her neck. "Now…Let's see how _you_ like it."

Sylvia opened her mouth to respond, but she eagerly quelled it when his hand moved down her chest and stomach, and skimmed over her satin booty shorts, particularly between her legs to feel her heat. His middle and ring finger gently rubbed over her clit, teasing her slit as he slid his fingers over the material of her shorts.

She bit her lip, hoping to silence the moans that threatened to escape.

"Not a sound," Oswald breathed; he lightly sucked on her earlobe as she'd done to him, smirking when she let out a haggard, shaky sigh.

Jack said happily, "Oh shit!"

Sylvia opened her eyes, startled that she'd even closed them and noticed that the demon had started causing mayhem in the movie, particularly the more intense plot points had started to arise. Jack and Joel were rooting for the villain—what was new?

Oswald reached down between them, and shuffled his pants down, smirking when she gasped, feeling his naked cock against her. He rubbed his cock between her legs, swirling his hips so his hard-on slipped in and out between her clothed thighs.

 _Was he really going to do this_? Her mind panicked just for a second, only to silence in that moment he reached down and pulled down her shorts; Oswald grinned in satisfaction when she shifted under the blanket, making it look like she was doing _just_ that rather than sliding them down her legs, and off one of her ankles.

When she laid back down, he pulled her closer to him. He took her leg and moved it behind his waist, smirking when she gritted her teeth as she felt his cock rub against the lips of her naked sex; his cockhead teased her swollen clit.

"You were asking for this, weren't you?" Oswald murmured against her neck. "This is what you wanted."

Her response was barely over a whisper as she nodded her head encouragingly.

"Do you feel how hard I am for you?"

"Yeah…"

"You know exactly what to do in order to get me in the mood, don't you? Do you know what that makes you?"

Sylvia groaned when his hand lightly cupped her sex, his fingers rubbing her clit slow enough that she wouldn't lose control.

"That makes you a manipulative little slut."

She was barely audible when he dipped them inside her wet cunt to feel how ready she was.

"But you're _my_ little slut, aren't you?"

Her mouth opened in a preemptive loud moan as he slipped his fingers in and out of her. Oswald used his other hand to cover her mouth, smirking when she licked his palm in grateful thanks. While she didn't care to break the employer-employee civilities, she would prefer not to have Gabe, or the twins see her in such an isolated predicament.

Oswald glanced up at the twins who were completely absorbed in the movie, then down at Sylvia, whose eyes could barely stay open.

"Do you feel my fingers inside you, Pet?"

"Mm-hmm..mm…mm"

"Yes, I know you do. But there's something else of mine I'd like to slip inside."

Sylvia pushed her bare ass against his hard shaft, her hot sex rubbing against his hand while he finger-fucked her. There really was no way for her to escape on either side, and she raised one hand to his shoulder, holding onto him, bearing her fingernails through the cloth of his shirt.

"Do you want it, Pigeon?"

"Mm-hmm!" She nodded her head almost aggressively.

"Do you?"

"Mm!"

"Put it inside, then. Take what belongs to you."

She reached behind her with her free hand, taking the tip of his cock and placed it at the slit of her sex before she pushed her ass against him. A soft groan slipped out of his mouth as Oswald felt her velvet silk engulf his member completely, the way she always did when she was so ready for a hard fuck.

He tilted his head to her ear again and moaned softly enough where only she could hear him, and it sent her reeling. Oswald smiled when he saw some panic flicker in her eyes as he first pumped quickly inside of her. She was nearly panting, and he hadn't buried himself inside fully just yet.

"Calm down, honey." He coaxed. "If you don't, the twins are going to catch on."

She whispered her plea: "Just go slow…please, I can't…"

Silently, he encouraged her to lie on her back, and she wrapped her legs around him, smiling in relief when he slowly thrust his cock inside, burying himself down to the hilt, covering her mouth with his to hopefully muffle any involuntary sounds that came out of either of them when the sensation was oh too good.

Sylvia winced in painful pleasure when Oswald dipped his head down under the covers to her breasts. He tugged her thin shirt down so he could lock his mouth over one nipple, sucking; his tongue flicking over it. He watched the muscles of her neck and jaw torque as she exercised the utmost effort not to moan to her heart's content. Although he did find her mouthing the word 'fuck' repeatedly as if this somehow substituted the need to say it like a prayer as he repeated the same actions to the other breast.

His pace stayed slow, although he did thrust deeper when he pushed inside of her. The last harrowing plunge made her involuntarily moan and Sylvia tried to make a 'normal' face when Jack and Joel glanced behind them. At that point, Oswald stilled as he heard Sylvia say playfully, "What? It was the movie, not _me_."

The twins glanced at each other before they returned their attention to the movie again. Luckily, there was only ten minutes left, but Sylvia wasn't sure she'd last that long. Already, she could feel Oswald getting impatient with these slow, gentle maneuvers and her orgasm was on the brink of releasing itself tenfold.

Oswald lined his body along hers, sliding his hands down her shoulders and back, grabbing her ass in a hard squeeze. Sylvia quelled a whimper that nearly escaped, and she bit her lip hard when he feverishly rubbed his hands up her stomach to her chest, grabbing her tits as he sprinkled her neck and shoulders in wet kisses.

"Ozzie," She whispered, "Mmm! I think _you're_ the one who needs to calm down."

He groaned, "I just want the others to get out so I can fuck you _properly_."

As if luck would have it, the movie was starting to roll credits. Quietly, she chastised him to look less frustrated and he quickly moved to her side as she did the same, so it appeared like they were cuddling the entire time. In the meantime, Oswald lifted her leg a little and slid himself inside of her cunt, moving in and out just enough to satisfy himself for the moment but not so avid in movement that he drew attention to them. As if he was just situating himself (although in more ways than one). While he did, he lazily teased one of Sylvia's nipples between his fingers.

"That was a damn good movie!" Jack congratulated, standing and stretching. "Who knew that ghost was that weird random girl all along!"

"I could've called it," Joel said pointedly. "She was basically the bait bringing the food back to the cave full of bears if that bear was a fucking incubus."

"Good enough movie, I guess. What'd you think, Liv?"

Sylvia held up a thumb and said amusedly, "Good movie."

"Can't say the same for Gabe," said Jack disappointedly, glancing at the man snoring in the armchair. "I guess he drank too hard in the beginning. It was a slow burn, you know."

"A slow burn?" said Joel incredulously. "That bitch was dragging tail for _at least_ the first half of the movie."

"Gotta get some filler plot to get the characters where they gotta be for the scene."

"Still, doing nothing for forty-five minutes is unacceptable."

"I'm beat though. I might just go and whack off."

"Ugh! We're gonna be in the same room, dipshit!" Joel said disgustedly.

"And that was different when we were kids, because…?"

The twins gave each other quizzical looks before they laughed out loud. For a second they pondered what to do with Gabe before deciding to pick him up and move him to his bed in the other room.

"See ya later, Liv!" The twins said in unison, waving at her.

"Good night, boys."

"'Night, Mr. Penguin!"

"Good night!" Oswald returned, glaring at Sylvia, who smirked at his unusual polite disposition.

When their doors had all closed, he threw the blanket off with a low growl, and pulled Sylvia to her feet by her hair; she grunted when he did but grinned wildly through the pain.

"Bend over." He said breathlessly.

She moved to the arm of the couch, doing as he commanded, bending over it at first until Oswald came up behind and pulled her back, positioning her in the way he wanted. He pulled his pajama pants down and they dropped to his ankles. Oswald stroked his cock eagerly, placing the head of it against her wet cunt.

Her clit rubbed against the rough texture of the couch, made sensitive by the hour long of teasing and she hissed inwardly when he wrapped his hand around her throat; the other hand kneaded her breast, if anything just to hold her in place.

"Feel free to scream my name," Oswald said as he nipped her shoulder. "I know how hard it is for you to resist."

His cock shoved inside her pussy, hard enough she was past the point of desperate whimpers and needy moans. Her knees nearly gave out; as if he'd known she would respond this way, the arm of the couch was there to catch most of her weight. She leaned forward, gripping the back of the couch as he fucked her hard, rough enough that she was reduced to inaudible screams and unintelligent words.

His loud groans and heady grunts brought about her climax in such a way that she was panting, just trying to take in as much oxygen as she could to comfortably breathe again. Oswald felt instant elation, watching her body writhe against him. Her slick sex clenching tightly onto him, her contractual pulse pounding against and around the length of his cock; it drove a pleasurable fire inside his belly, and he came inside her, groaning when he did.

Just as he did, he watched her body slink forward.

"Ooh…like…jelly…like jelly…" Sylvia panted with a breathless giggle.

She lied down on the couch, turning onto her stomach.

"What?"

"My body feels like jelly."

Oswald grinned tiredly at her praise and he sat beside her, running a hand through his hair; his entire body was sweaty, and his pajamas stuck to his skin in an unpleasant way, not that he was complaining. The result was worth the aftermath.

Sylvia looked up at him; her entire affect gave him the feeling like he'd fuck her all over again. She was gazing at him in the way he always wanted her to, like she'd do anything for him and there would be no one to stand in her way if it came down to choosing him or someone else.

And for a fact, he always knew that Sylvia would choose him.

She rolled a little towards the end of the couch, curling herself around him as he sat on the edge. She kissed his hip affectionately.

"Honestly, I haven't been watching that movie. So, if you wanna do this again, we can." Sylvia uttered mischievously.

Oswald rolled his eyes playfully as they both stood up, fixing themselves.

She let out a squeak of surprise when he smacked her butt before he walked into the kitchen for a proper drink (other than soda or beer). A blush quickly worked its way to her face and neck.

She never realized she wanted to be spanked until now. At least, by him.

 _Save_ that _for another movie night._


	68. Tensions Build

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Tensions Build

* * *

Barbara, Tabitha, and Butch Gilzean sat at the empty bar in _The Sirens_. Barbara watched empathetically as Tabitha tried bearing a harder grip on the knife in her injured hand (the one Ed had chopped off), but it was proving to be less than productive, despite the woman's stellar effort. Frustrated by the disappointing result, she slammed it down, glaring at no one in particular.

"I can't even hold a knife," Tabitha scoffed angrily. She glanced at Butch: "I swear when I see Nygma—"

"We'll kill him together," Butch reassured softly, the empathy for his girlfriend's condition obvious in both his face and tone. " _Real_ slow."

Barbara glanced between them: "How sweet."

Just as she said it, the double doors opened. The three occupants turned around or peered over to the entrance as Edward Nygma traversed inside, strolling in with the intent of a determined predator but with the caution of one who knew he was outnumbered if in any case the real tigress of the crowd decided to take her pound of flesh immediately.

Pointedly, Barbara took the knife from within Tabitha's proximity and took her place to stand in between them. The moment Tabitha recognized who it was, she broke her wine glass on the counter and started forward threateningly before Barbara held up her hands, holding her back.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Butch growled, taking out his gun from inside his jacket.

"Hear him out!" Barbara mediated. " _Please_."

Tabitha and Butch glared at her, wondering what her weight in all of this truly was but they decided to appease her, even though neither Butch nor Tabitha decided to lower their gun or broken glass piece respectively.

Ed stepped forward so he was standing completely inside the club: "I don't want to kill him."

He paused, pondering the best way to articulate his true desire. The words were spoken in a steady, darkened tone: "I want to _destroy_ him." (Barbara smirked at his sentiment.) "I want to take away everything that he loves. I want to make him _despised_."

"What are you talking about!" Butch snapped.

"Penguin." Barbara said victoriously, her grin nearly reaching ear-to-ear. " _He_ killed the librarian."

"What?" Tabitha growled. She shot a glare of daggers at Ed: "And you cut off _my_ hand?"

Ed ignored the other two as Barbara turned to look at him.

"Did you happen to confront Lark about any of this? Out of curiosity…" She began.

"Yes."

"And how did that go?"

"How do you think?" Ed said curtly. His tone softened with the thought of her, his anger towards Sylvia for covering for Oswald slowly extinguishing to that of pity. "Liv loves him too much; she wouldn't incriminate herself nor implicate him."

"Yeah, and she doesn't care enough about you _not_ to tell you when your best friend has gone behind your back to kill your lady love," Barbara said apathetically. "You must be feeling pretty weird since she slept with you _knowing_ she killed the librarian."

"It's a little more complicated than that. And I'm _pretty_ sure you know this."

Barbara smiled half-heartedly at his passive-aggressive response, but Tabitha stepped forward, pushing her to the side.

"You'll chop off my hand," She said furiously, "and electrocute Butch without really knowing it was either of us who killed this woman. Yet, you find out—for a fact—that Lark is the one who killed her, it's just 'complicated'? How the hell does that even make any sense!"

Ed's frown deepened as if he was considering chopping off her other hand, but Barbara held out her arm to separate the two.

"Penguin ordered Lark to kill her," Barbara explained gently. She looked at Ed with a knowing glance, and he returned one of agreement. "It's common knowledge to Gotham that she will do anything for him at this point. But, Ed…You know by going after Penguin, you _will_ have to deal with her at some point."

Ed seemed to accept her words, but they flowed through one ear and out the other before he said coolly, "I assume you want something out of all of this."

"Well, you're not wrong." Barbara said with a slighted smile. "With Penguin gone, the Underworld will need a new leader."

"The crime families will never follow you." Ed informed smoothly. "And, even if they do, one of the Heads is Liv herself." He leaned in with a small cynical smile, adding, "I don't think she's going to hand over the empire to you so easily. If I recall, it didn't work out too well when you two" (He gestured to Tabitha and Butch) "tried taking it away from her twice, and for a third time, after her mother-in-law passed; by the way, that was in really poor taste."

"Fuck you, Nygma," Tabitha hissed.

"Although, I'm glad to see that it hasn't dampened your efforts in the slightest bit." Ed responded. He looked at Barbara pointedly. "You may contend with the other four Families, but Paddock has been down for the count for a few weeks and Sylvia has recently begun acting as the head of the Paddock Family table. You may be able bribe some of her men, but I don't see how that is possible seeing as how Isaac himself chose her to take his place."

"Money speaks volumes," Butch reminded.

"Yeah, but you fail to remember—as you always do—Liv doesn't just deal in monetary value. What Penguin honors is compensation in just that; what _she_ offers is compassion, and…" Ed gulped a little, startled by the sudden tug on his heart. "A mutual level of respect."

"Well, that's where you come in." Barbara piped, smiling widely. "You know the Families inside and out: what they want, what they need. You're a whiz with strategy. Not to mention the fact that you know the best way to get between her and Penguin. Surely, they've talked to you about their little scraps."

Ed crossed his arms and said coolly, "You want to separate them."

"Obviously. She's his life support, his main anchor; even if he loses everything, even his sanity, she'll be there—as she always is for anyone—to pick up the pieces. The only people who have the guns to compete with that type of emotional artillery are the people who know Penguin and Lark best."

"You've known Liv longer than I have," Ed reminded callously. "You can't think of anything?"

"Well, I could," She said defensively. She shrugged: "But you're closer to Penguin. Hearing your tone, I imagine you've already thought about how to bring her down."

Ed thought about how Alex was tethered to her and drawled, "I'm three steps ahead of you."

"Wait," Butch interrupted. "I thought you didn't want to hurt her."

"No, no," Barbara tittered. "We just don't want to _kill_ her."

"But we're killing Penguin," Tabitha said skeptically. "If we're killing him, we'd have to kill her too."

Ed scoffed, "Haven't you been listening? Sylvia has allies and family in the GCPD, in the majority of the Families, the Narrows, on the Mainland, **and** —I don't know if you're aware this, Butch—the former crime lord, Don Carmine Falcone asked for her _personally_ to organize his late son's _engagement_ party. If you kill the Queen of Gotham, there will be a mob the size of this city standing outside the double doors. In case you haven't seen the big picture: A lot of people respect her, and she offers them the same."

"Well, I don't like her. And she doesn't exactly respect _me_." Tabitha said snidely.

"That's because you killed her mother-in-law, Sweetie." Barbara placated flatly. "And she may be the 'Queen of Gotham', but we're about to change all of that."

"So, what if people respect her and she respects them: She works for Penguin. They don't like Penguin," Tabitha said heatedly, ignoring her. "Easy choice."

"You can love the Queen and hate the King and still claim loyalty to the monarchy," Ed said irritably. He glanced at Barbara as such, "How are you able to work with these people?"

She ignored Tabitha and Butch's aggressive response and said loudly, "Think about it, Ed. Your brains, their brawn, my… _me_. We could make quite the team."

"We destroy Penguin first."

"Of course. And I assume you're already working on a plan to separate him and his sweet little wife?"

"Obviously."

"Excellent."

"Are we going to continue to talk this one out?" Ed asked readily.

"Definitely. However, there is one thing you need to do," said Barbara sweetly. She held her hand up in Tabitha's direction.

Ed looked at Barbara skeptically before he consented. "Okay…" He stepped towards Tabitha. "I'm sorry about your hand."

"Apology not accepted!" She snapped, gunning for him a third time with a broken bottle before Barbara held her back impatiently.

"We'll work on that." Barbara insisted, adding loudly as an invitation: "Drinks!"

Ed grinned broadly at her.

* * *

Sylvia sat up in bed, covering her nudity with the comforter. Her back rested against the headboard. 'Movie Night' had ended with a several drinks on her and Oswald's part, and the night was a little blurry after the fact. Seeing as she was waking up in a bed rather than on a couch, Sylvia grinned mischievously; at some point, their drunken sex had ended up in the bedroom to sleep it off.

When she heard a bit of light breathing, she glanced downwards to see Oswald nestled under the covers. Naked as she, his back was covered in scratches that ranged from hues of light pink to red where her nails had dug a little too deeply, but that man had never looked so content whilst sleeping.

Sylvia stood and walked to their adjoining bathroom, her grin widening in pride to see that her back might as well had reflected his. The same marks were on her back, with most of them lining the top and sides of her thighs. This coupled with the feeling of post-sex aches, the slight bruising hue along her hips, and soreness, brought about a pleasant conclusion: She'd presumably ridden him to the heavens and back, and perhaps the other way around.

After using the bathroom, washing her face, and coming back to bed, she was surprised to see that it was only four o'clock in the morning. Satisfied that she can easily go back to sleep, Sylvia shifted the covers and slid back underneath them, lying close to Oswald as he turned on his stomach. When he did, she rubbed his back, tracing indistinguishable designs over his shoulder blades and down his spine.

"Is your aim to lull me back to sleep, Pigeon?" He said groggily, eyes still closed.

Sylvia half-smiled and said softly, "I didn't even realize you were awake."

He exhaled deeply, turning his head so he faced her and opened his eyes with an effort: "Why are _you_?"

"I had to go pee."

Oswald breathed a quiet laugh at her response, turning so he lied on his back, looking up at her. The moment he did, he seemed more alert; a shadow of worry darkened his facial features.

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked.

"You were talking to Ed outside, weren't you? Last night?"

She smiled sadly and nodded.

"Did he say why he didn't come in?" Oswald asked, sitting up. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his face tiredly.

"He didn't want a confrontation."

"What confrontation?"

There was a puppy dog look in the way Oswald peered at her and it tugged on her heart strings. That familiar urge that she and Gertrud shared to make him feel better when he was so disappointed; it was hard to ignore.

"Ed is confused, sweetheart." Sylvia offered gently. "He's just trying to work out a few things on his own; sometimes, people need to step back before they can fully appreciate what you have to offer. You know, not everyone feels like they can accept another person's love, especially when they've lost someone close to them so early on."

"He knew Isabelle for a _week_."

"Well, her name is _Isabella_ , and that week meant a lot to him."

Oswald rolled his eyes contemptuously at her correction and posturing but there was an element of compassion in her tone that made him rethink his knee-jerk reaction. All he really wanted now was his friend back, even if all he could have with him was their friendship.

"This certainly brings a few things into light, you know." Oswald muttered.

Sylvia sat up with him, taking the covers with her so she could remain warm despite the drafts that always made their way throughout the old mansion.

"What things?" She tilted her head to the side.

"Some things…For example, why some people in your life can't leave well enough alone."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"No, what are you talking about?"

"Nothing."

"What is it?"

"I said it's nothing."

"And I'm asking, 'what is it'." Sylvia insisted. She sat on her knees. "Who are you referring to?"

"Who else?"

She sighed patiently, "Are we really going to talk about Alex again? _Now_?"

"This is why I said, 'it's nothing'. I really don't want to talk about it right now."

"So why did you bring him up?"

"I didn't. _You_ did." Oswald reminded pointedly.

"But you're the one who half-haphazardly mentioned him. And obviously, we're talking about it. How does what's going on with Ed have anything to do with what's going on with Alex?"

"Beals is always trying to be your friend."

"Okay…So?"

"At some point, he's going to try to be more than that, isn't he?"

Sylvia stared at him, more startled by his sudden spark of insecurity than the question. Even after all their conversations and arguments about Alex and what encompassed all the vulgarities of the past, he was still insecure about the proximity placed between them.

"You're comparing your situation to Alex's?" Sylvia inquired skeptically. "Oz, you told Ed you loved him, and he didn't reciprocate. That isn't to say that once the awkwardness goes away that he won't want to be your friend again. Maybe even more, once his heart realizes what's in front of him. Things are weird between you two for right now, and that's normal."

"And you're telling me that your ex-boyfriend is _only_ interested in being your friend and nothing more, and that he hasn't at any point in time tried to elevate that proposition even _once_?"

She sighed, rubbing her eyes. The response was an admission to his speculation, and this didn't make Oswald feel any more consoled clearly as his lips tightened to white lines.

"It's complicated between Alex and me."

"No kidding," Oswald scoffed. He slid out of bed and moved about the room, putting on a robe and tying it off.

As if that was the end of the conversation, he started walking off, but Sylvia grabbed the tail end of his robe and tugged it back, so Oswald had to slowly step backwards until he stood in front of her. When he did, she moved to the edge of the bed, only smiling when he instantly gave her a once-over at her figure, including her royal purple panties, the only piece of clothing she wore. Her hands reached out to his hips, moving him closer until he stood between her legs.

"We've had this conversation several times," Sylvia stated softly. "And we circle back to 'it's complicated' quite frequently, don't we?"

"We do."

"Alex does want more than friendship."

"As I suspected—"

"—But _I_ don't. The only person I could ever want, the only love I would ever truly need is yours, sweetie." Sylvia uttered genuinely. "You see me as he couldn't; you understand me in a way no one else can. And I see all of you: your passion, your love…your insecurities and I know you." She ran her hands up his chest as she stood to meet his height. "You want to know if there is the slightest possibility that he could ever take me away from you."

Oswald stiffened at her words; his entire demeanor chilled to a stony face as if he was trying to bar her attempts to bring out those insecurities, some of the things he didn't care too much about himself.

"Or…Maybe it's not that at all, is it?"

"Sylvia…"

"You're not concerned with whether he could take me away from you…You're worried that _I_ will leave you for _him_."

Oswald frowned. He wasn't angry; but there was a certain amount of vulnerability that he hadn't expected. Sylvia cradled his face in her palms, her thumbs sliding over his cheeks with a gentle stroke.

"How many times must I say it?"

"I know." Oswald said remorsefully. "But you can't fault me for thinking it."

"What is our relationship based on if you don't trust me _not_ to break your heart?"

Oswald hesitated. Sylvia looked at him, her eyes coaxing him to speak. When he finally did, she was taken aback.

"What strengthens a relationship but can equally damage it forever?"

Sylvia blinked: "Did you just give me a riddle?"

"Yes. It's a commonality you and Ed seem to share, and I tolerate it. Now, give me the answer."

"The answer is 'history', but I don't understand how it pertains to—"

"History, exactly." Oswald said darkly. "Whatever it is you and Beals have is nothing short of what we have. There are moments we've shared, tragedies we've suffered, and people we've had to be rid of in order for us to be together. You're telling me that you don't have these same memories with _him_?"

"I do, but they're different. You have me in a way he never could."

"If that's the case, then why is he still here, following you around like a lost puppy, thinking there's still a chance of that happening?"

"Because he chooses to follow me around. Like he _chooses_ to hang around."

"But not without your permission."

"I didn't _invite_ him to come up here from South. He wanted a job; he needed one. I gave him one."

"Yes, your charity really knows no boundaries, does it?"

"Why do I detect resentment in your tone?"

"Maybe because it's there."

"But why?"

"You've provided the length of time needed for him to slowly wear you down and—"

"—Oswald, Alex is an _idiot_. He left me for some half-pint dream that was out of his league, out of his depth, and out of the way." Sylvia interrupted impatiently. "Yes, we had memories. At one point, I loved him just as much as he loves me, but I don't feel the same way anymore. I don't know how many times we need to have this conversation."

Oswald crossed his arms, staring a hole into the bed post before Sylvia sat down on the bed, running a hand through her hair listlessly. After a moment, he sat beside her with a steady exhale, looking at her as if he was trying to figure out the most impossible riddle known to mankind.

Sylvia was a complicated woman. There was simplicity in her lifestyle, but not in her nature. Her mind was a convoluted mess full of intricate wires for thoughts; brick and mortar for barriers, but her heart was transparent. Oswald could hear it in her voice that she would love no other man than he, so why the nagging, incessant prodding of his subconscious? Why did he feel like at any moment, Alexander Beals might say something to bring Sylvia to his side and she'd be gone in a matter of days?

There wasn't much he could say at this point.

"What must I do in order to prove that you mean more to me than he does?" Sylvia asked imploringly.

"Get rid of him."

She blinked, but met his eyes, searching them for clarification.

"What do you mean by _that_?" She asked quietly.

"Not in the way you think." He reassured.

"You want me to fire him?"

"Yes."

"His existence makes you that insecure about our relationship, our marriage?"

Oswald frowned: "Perhaps, but it's more than that. This is a man that broke your heart. And you keeping him around is a constant reminder of your past."

"Past relationships, you mean."

He breathed a sigh of forced patience, glaring up at the ceiling as he tried his best to suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

"What is your attachment to him?" He questioned.

"He's…I don't know. Luck hasn't been the best to him, and I'm just starting to feel bad for him."

"For my benefit, please consider it. Dealing with this Isabella situation, the mayoral duties I have to keep up with, and Tarquin—"

"I'll consider it."

It was his turn to stare at her. He hadn't expected her to resolve the situation so hurriedly. There was a reluctance to her voice, however, and he saw the way she bit the inside of her bottom lip nervously; even her gaze seemed to stutter as she met his eyes. It was the same way she looked at him when he'd ordered her to get rid of Isabella.

Even though she said nothing, he could feel her troubled aura coming off her. For someone who was so abrasive towards everyone else, even himself, there was a certain powerful feeling he experienced whenever she gave into him. Still, he saw her hesitation.

She would get rid of an ex-boyfriend, her first love, in order to ease his mind and, admittedly enough, his jealousy. And that kind of dedication and adoration she devoted to him matched the extent to which his mother would've gone to make him happy. And that type of sacrifice, especially during these times when he felt unsure of everything from his relationship with Ed to the Underworld's stability in power, was meant to be acknowledged.

He leaned in, gently moving her hair behind her ear to kiss her cheek. She looked at him, puzzled by his sudden display of affection. He smiled when she returned the kiss immediately to his lips. This exchange was a way of showing his fealty, his way of saying he was sorry for having this conversation for the umpteenth time, for his nagging suspicions. Her return was the acceptance of that.

"I love you." He whispered against her lips.

"I love you too."

"I love you more."

She pressed her forehead gently against his: "Impossible."


	69. Isaac's Final Hours

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Isaac's Final Hours

* * *

"We have the introduction, then the dance number where we'll combine the samurai swords and fireworks…at that point, we'll just…Miss Sylvia? _Miss Sylvia_."

Sylvia startled, glancing up from her to-do list to see Jack and Joel Kabuki watching her expectantly. She shifted her gaze between them, apologetically smiling before her notebook was pushed to the side.

"I'm sorry," She said softly. "You were saying?"

Jack and Joel exchanged knowing glances.

Her agenda of things to accomplish had only lengthened since their last rehearsal; with the addition of Margaret Hearst wanting to interview Oswald at City Hall, the lack of communication between them and Edward Nygma, and Isaac Paddock's diagnosis worsening all over the period of a week, Sylvia was exceedingly distracted as of late. Forget the fact that their next performance would be on the same day that Hearst wanted to interview Oswald, so her nerves were wracked enough. Hearst proved to be one of those few who could dig a little too deeply, and the secrets Oswald and Sylvia kept were more than just a few skeletons in the closet.

There were several, in fact.

"We were just going over the script," Jack continued modestly. "Our introduction, then the theatrics."

"Fireworks," Joel chuckled. "By the time we're finished, the next round of entertainment that _isn't_ us is going to bore the room."

"Well," Jack reminded, "We're on the second tier."

" _First_ tier of entertainment, now that we're adding our swordsmanship. Benson ain't half bad of a teacher; it'd help if he didn't clench his butt so tightly."

The twins laughed at that while Sylvia half-smiled at their comedic back-and-forth. For all their efforts, the only response they received was her smile before she asked that they go off on their own and leave her in peace. Jack and Joel did as she asked, quickly leaving her office and, consequently, alone.

At least, for a little while.

Ten minutes later, Victor Zsasz was knocking on the door frame before he walked right in, hopping onto the armchair so his knees bent to lie on either arm as if to perch rather than to sit. He waited for her to acknowledge his sudden appearance with the ostentatious glance that he'd normally receive from Penguin whenever he just casually entreated upon his territory, but Sylvia simply looked up with a mild pleasantry.

"Got something to say, Precious?" Sylvia joked.

"Actually, I do."

Hearing his serious tone, she reclined back in her chair and, as with the twins, she'd pushed her notebook to the side.

Evidently, today was a wash where accomplishing her tasks were concerned. For his benefit, Sylvia gestured to the door and Victor quickly moved to close it upon her silent request; whatever their conversation included, it seemed like privacy was a necessity. In this case, Victor knew it to be true.

"What's on your mind?"

At her business-like tone, Victor smiled. As informal as she proved to be nine out of ten times, Sylvia's predilection to detect a solemn moment regardless of his usual monotonous facial expressions was admirable.

"We have to talk." Victor told her coolly, sitting in the armchair like a normal person, with one leg crossed over the knee.

"What about?"

"Your brother."

"Ah." Sylvia sat back in her chair, crossing her arms lazily over her chest. Despite her attempt to seem nonchalant, Victor heard the subtle catch in her voice. "I see."

"You know what I'm about to say."

"I do."

"And you know I'm good at what I do."

"Yep, and I know there's nothing I could say to make you change your mind. Nothing I could offer?"

Victor leaned forward: "Not unless you want to do the deed yourself."

"Impossible."

"Is it?"

"You think I could kill my own brother?" Sylvia asked dryly.

"Not for Falcone, but I have an idea that—given the right circumstances—you might."

"Well, there's your answer then."

"I just wanted you to know that it isn't a matter of 'if', but 'when'. Falcone is angry; I've never seen him like this."

"I know."

"Jim killed his son. You know Falcone isn't the type to let bygones be bygones. For Falcone, this will be personal. For me, it's just business."

" _I get it_!"

Victor didn't flinch at her tone like others might. He watched her carefully, as if she might draw her gun on him without him expecting it. It hadn't even been a few months since they'd finished a contract together; he knew her strengths, how fast she was when it came to drawing her weapon, and how sadistic she could be when it came to avenging and protecting her family. While she and Jim were usually at odds with each other, there were times when she was there for him when no one else—not even his own cop buddies—had been.

He understood her waspish response, knew that she wasn't irritated with _him_ , knew that she wasn't indignant towards _him_ for what would come about when Falcone finally gave the word.

As it was whenever she encountered a stressful situation, Sylvia reached into the drawer of her desk, fumbling around through its contents before she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She muttered under her breath as she lit one, throwing the lighter carelessly onto the surface of the desk before she placed the cancer stick in her mouth, dragging deeply.

"Those are going to kill you one day," Victor stated, eyeing the cigarette.

"Add that to a list of my worries. Lowest priority, let me tell you what."

"Liv."

"What."

"I don't _want_ to kill your brother. He's a good egg. He's been a worthy opponent. Several times, actually."

"But far be it for you to turn down any contract that comes down from Falcone," Sylvia murmured resentfully, giving him a once-over look of spite before she exhaled deeply, the smoke surrounding her before ascending to the ceiling and disappearing soon after.

"I hear you earned a favor from him."

Sylvia cracked a smile, seeing Victor's obvious satisfaction about that: "Yes, I did."

"Was it for throwing the engagement party?"

"Yeah. He wanted to give me money, but I wanted something far more valuable."

Victor nodded agreeably: "Well, he certainly gave you that."

"Uh-huh. So why bring it up?"

"Well, you can call in that favor. To save your brother."

"I could."

"But you won't?"

Sylvia smiled solemnly, tapping the cigarette over an ash tray so the filtered ash flitted downward; the ember glowed once it was in her mouth; once it left, there was a light peach crème circle, the transference of lipstick left from where her lips pressed down a little too hard. The brightness of her cerulean eyes became nearly glossy, as if she might cry.

While her eyes betrayed her sadness, her words came out harsh: "Jim knew that by killing Mario, he'd fall out of Falcone's graces. Out of respect for Carmine, I wouldn't rob him of his closure."

Victor raised a hairless eyebrow at her response. She noticed.

"I want to save my brother." Sylvia admitted. "If honor among criminals did not exist, I'd kill Falcone in a heartbeat" (Victor frowned.) "and _you,_ before you ever left this office. Because when it comes to my family, I would have no one touch a single hair on any of them: My brother, my husband, _no one._ But sadly, there is such as a thing as honor. Demetri took my daughter away from me; I killed him. Jim took Falcone's son away from him; Falcone reserves the right to do the same."

"Where will that leave us?"

"What do you mean?"

Victor smiled half-heartedly: "I'll be killing your brother. You won't want to come after me once I do?"

She sternly put out the cigarette in the ash tray, standing up. Victor stood, meeting her height.

"Falcone, Mario, Jim…it's personal to _them_."

"So, are we good?"

"It's like you said," Sylvia uttered starkly. "It's just business."

"Good to hear."

"Hm."

"I'll see you later, Liv." He moved to leave.

"Victor?"

He turned on his heel, back straightened as he peered at her inquisitively.

She bit her lip and said wistfully, "Make it quick. Please?"

Victor nodded somberly. His promise, unspoken.

She mouthed, "Thank you."

He bowed before he left her office. Sylvia sat back down in her chair, looking at her notebook for only a second before she pushed it off onto the floor. Her arms crossed on the desk, and she placed her head on them, crying quietly so no one could hear.

* * *

She was almost home at the mansion before she received an important phone call. This phone call led her to the Paddock's household; when she came inside the two-story home, Benson urged her (in his own calm way) to head upstairs where Isaac was currently resting.

Hospice care had been provided throughout. A few dozen flowers were sent on behalf of several condolences. In Isaac's bedroom, which was the second largest room to the living room, was decorated with flowers, which were a happier sight than that of the bags hung delicately on the I.V. rack.

This rack held three different fluids, two of which were assorted painkillers with the third holding saline to keep Isaac fully hydrated. It had been a couple weeks since Sylvia had seen him, and he appeared disturbingly worse; the happier lines of his face were sagged downwards, liver spots had come to life as his skin had become much sallower.

Upon her entry, the few Family members in his crew quickly pardoned themselves as she sat down on the edge of his bed. Isaac opened his eyes slowly, smiling at her despite his morbid situation. He couldn't sign with both hands since he was weaker than before, so his one hand moved while the other remained quite still.

Sylvia smiled at his inquiry: "The doctor called me."

Isaac nodded, gathering the reason as to why she'd come unannounced. His eyes flickered to the door then back to her. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Charleen in the doorway.

Her dirty clothes were dirtier; her auburn hair more tangled than before, and there were fresh bruises on her face as well as dark smudges on her knees as if she'd been kneeling down for a longer period of time than little girls would normally do. Isaac held out his hand and Charleen quickly moved towards him, sitting on the other side of the bed; she angrily peered over at Sylvia before her eyes glossed over with fresh tears.

"I'm sorry, Isaac," Charleen whispered, her face breaking into a tearful cry. "I'm sorry, I'm…"

Isaac shook his head and patted her cheek, consoling.

"Why are you sorry?" Sylvia asked. "You didn't do this to him."

"Shut up, you old cow!" Charleen snapped, glaring at her. "It's none of your fucking business!"

Surprisingly, Isaac smacked her firmly on the cheek with the back of his hand. It wasn't hard enough to leave a mark, but just firm enough to catch her off guard. Charleen appeared shocked by his sudden discipline, only because she might've thought he hadn't the strength to carry it out.

Isaac signed, ' _You mind your manners, Charlie.'_

Charleen nodded quickly, anything to appease him during his final hours and to keep the peace. Now wasn't the time to stir the waters and create unnecessary reasons to feel guilty if he passed before she could apologize.

Isaac continued: _'This isn't your fault. I was dying long before this. Of boredom._ '

His joke made Charleen laugh, but her tears only fell harder. Her bright green and bright blue eyes alike were drowning in them. She leaned over, harrowing her body over his as though hoping his sickness might take her instead.

"What am I gonna do?" She cried. "What…?" Her words were still spoken, but Sylvia couldn't understand them. Neither could Isaac, as he quickly stroked her back, hoping to calm her down.

Isaac hugged her with both arms and patted her head. He pretended to get his hand tangled in her curly hair and she giggled as he made a whole spectacle; when she sat up, he smiled warmly at her.

He signed gently, ' _Would you mind stepping out for a second, Charlie? Sylvia and I need to talk. You can come in after._ '

Charleen gave Sylvia the ugliest glare before she nodded reluctantly. After she left, Isaac exhaled deeply, his voice came out shaky—he wasn't trying to talk; he was crying. He looked at her imploringly, using his one hand to sign as he tried to sound out some of the words so Sylvia could fully understand his meaning.

' _Take care of her while I'm gone. She has no one.'_

Sylvia smiled sadly: "She acts as if she doesn't need anyone, either."

Isaac chuckled warmly as he responded with his hand: ' _She wants people to think that. But once I'm gone, she'll need someone more than ever. Please, take care of her.'_

"I will."

Isaac grabbed Sylvia's wrist, his grip a lot harder than she expected as he squeezed.

' _Promise me_.'

Sylvia nodded: "I promise, Isaac."

Isaac smiled thankfully at her. He knocked on the dresser beside him and it was his signal for Charleen to come back in. When she did, Isaac looked at her, hugged her one last time, and when Charleen pulled back, he was gone; he died with a small smile on his face.

"Isaac?" Charleen whispered fretfully. "Isaac!" She shook him, hard. "Isaac! _Isaac_! _No, Isaac! Don't leave me!_ "

"He's gone, Charleen."

"Shut up! You're not a doctor!" She growled. "He's just resting. Isaac!"

Sylvia quietly sighed, getting up and walking over to the opposite side of the bed. Gingerly taking Charleen's shoulder, Sylvia attempted to move her out of the room, but Charleen batted her away.

"He can't leave me! He can't! He _shouldn't_."

"It wasn't up to him…"

"He can't! What am I gonna do!" Charleen cried, pushing Sylvia away. "No one else cares about me! I don't have anyone to talk to—I don't have anyone to…" She plopped down on her butt, bringing her knees into her so she broke down on the carpet.

Sylvia sat down with her. When Charleen's grief became too much for a fifteen-year-old to bear, Sylvia pulled her closer and, surprisingly, Charleen gave in. Her arms wrapped around Sylvia's middle, firmly holding her as if she was the paper weight keeping her down while the hurricane of emotion attempted to sweep her away. Sylvia didn't try to tell her that it was going to be okay; she didn't dare say everything was going to be better in the morning. Instead, she let Charleen cry out, scream even.

Benson stepped into the doorway, having heard the cries from downstairs. Sylvia met his eyes and she shook her head gloomily; Benson bowed his head and stoically gave a small nod before he left the room, closing the door in the process.

* * *

It was about thirty minutes later before Charleen had calmed down. Sylvia had talked her into going back to the mansion with her since she couldn't be there while Isaac's body was being prepared and sent off to the morgue for embalming nor did Sylvia feel comfortable sending her back to the Flea to be taken advantage of amidst her grief.

On the drive back, she sat in the passenger seat while Sylvia drove; the girl was quiet, glaring angrily out the window, furious about what had been taken from her. Once the car stopped in front of the Van Dahl Mansion, it was finally dark outside; the clouds had granted a single reprieve to disappear so that Charleen saw the stars dotting the sky.

"This is the first time I've seen them in a while," She said quietly, staring up. "I forget there're so many."

"Gotham City has too many lights," Sylvia explained, closing the driver's door, walking around the front of the car. "Sometimes, in order to see the beauty of something, you need to be shrouded in darkness first."

"Easy for you to say," Charleen muttered as she gestured to the mansion. "You live _here_."

"I never used to live in a mansion, believe it or not."

Charleen leaned her back against the passenger's side door, her glare stuttering at Sylvia's obvious voice of honesty.

"I can believe _that_." She said sarcastically. "You don't exactly _scream_ 'posh side of town', with the way you dress."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sylvia said with a small smile.

"Why the fuck did you bring me here anyway? It's not like you care where I sleep tonight or something."

"I care that you've experienced a tragedy, and little girls are better off sleeping in a mansion."

"Better than sleeping in a place where you forget other people are suffering."

"I'd rather you forget other people are suffering than spend the night in a place that permits strange old men to have sex with teenage girls."

Charleen raised her eyebrows at Sylvia's last suggestion.

"How did you know?" She whispered.

"You have bruises on your face; and your knees are permanently darkened by ash and dirt from the grime in the alleys. You get defensive anytime I've asked about any of those things." Sylvia said softly, clasping her hands together in front of her. "I'd have to be an idiot not to notice the signs."

"Well, you gotta do what you gotta do to survive."

"I understand that."

"So, you know—it's what _I_ gotta do."

"I get it," Sylvia reassured.

"You can't get it. You don't understand any of that. You don't know that kind of life, you don't know _me_."

Sylvia smiled sadly, saying, "You think I don't, only because you see where I live and to whom I am married, but I know that kind of life, and I, more than anyone, understand it."

"Fuck you, you don't know me."

"I should hazard a guess."

Charleen rolled her eyes and said harshly, "I dare you to even try."

"Fine then. You are a teenage girl, who casually sleeps with people to get by financially even while Isaac regularly offers you hand-outs, trying to keep you off the street. He knows what you've been doing, and he's tried to give you the resources to stop. You've not been too proud to take his money, because it helps with the debt of buying alcohol from your Fences in the Flea; it helps you forget what'll happen that following night. Am I right?"

Charleen shifted uncomfortably where she stood.

"Sometimes, you might enjoy taking money from powerful men who give it all up for a night they might not remember; that feeling is the only thing that keeps you from completely despising yourself. With the alcohol and promiscuity, a person can do it once and they'll feel terrible, degraded. Do it enough, you get to feeling nothing at all. Twenty years from now, you'll realize too late you've become an empty shell of a person. Am I close?"

Charleen's bottom lip quivered as if she might begin to cry.

"You know I'm right. I'm often right about these things," Sylvia said coolly, but her tone lightened. "When it comes down to it, you're sorry you've taken his generosity for granted, knowing he isn't around anymore to offer that kindness. The kind of generosity that comes but once in a lifetime." She tilted her head to the side. "So, what do you think? Did I hit the nail on the head?"

Charleen said despondently, "I don't have to take this shit. I'm leaving…"

Sylvia caught her wrist and brought her back; Charleen thrust her fist out of Sylvia's grip. Sylvia gave her a stern look, but it softened as she said softly, "Hey…Stay with me, at least tonight."

"Oh yeah? _Why_?"

"It's dark out; it's about to rain," Sylvia persuaded. "Wouldn't it be better to sleep in a bed rather than in a cardboard box? Or in a gutter somewhere?"

Charleen considered this but said offhandedly, "You're not gonna talk to your bird husband or something beforehand?"

"He'll accept it. Or he won't."

"So, what are you pitching me?"

Sylvia smirked at her negotiating tone and said smoothly, "Shower, dinner, a bed, and if you don't want to talk to me for the remainder of the night, there's a spare bedroom no one is currently using if you'd prefer to put distance between us. I can drive you back to the Flea in the morning, if that's what you want."

Charleen crossed her arms stiffly: "We're not friends, you know."

"I know that."

"And you're not my fucking mother."

"I didn't claim to be."

"I don't really like you that much either."

"I gathered that."

"And you don't care to have a fucking whore in your pretty little home."

Sylvia smiled sympathetically: "Your choices were made in light of survival. I've made similar decisions at some point…minus the promiscuity. I didn't lose my virginity until I was twenty-one. Anyway, you'll receive no judgment from me."

She held up her hands, a gesture symbolizing surrender and a promise.

"You know all of that shit, and you still want me in your home?" Charleen inquired suspiciously. "Why?"

"Isaac cared for you. And I promised that I'd make sure you were okay."

"So, you only care because _Isaac_ asked you to."

"I care about people, in general. That's why it's so easy for people to take advantage, which is something I wish you'd do already because, frankly, I _am_ hungry, and I'd like dinner and a shower myself."

There was a small tug of Charleen's mouth as if she would crack a smile but her stubbornness to continue despising Sylvia made her keep a stern frown.

"Take my offer, don't take it. Either way, I'm going in. You can follow when you're ready."

Sylvia left to go inside. Charleen glanced back from where they'd driven. She couldn't find her way back to Gotham even if she tried. She felt the first sprinkle of rain on her face before the sky suddenly opened; the stars that were once there were now covered with dark gray clouds. Choosing between being able to find shelter or wear wet clothes, Charleen grumbled before heading inside the mansion.

* * *

Charleen sat in the dining room, eating a bowl of cereal. Ten minutes ago, Oswald had come home; when he saw Charleen, all his red flags and inquiries came up in a second's notice. Charleen had been dismissed to grab food in the kitchen so the adults could talk in the living room.

Meanwhile, Oswald stood in front of the fireplace while Sylvia sat on the couch, leaned forward and looking at him coolly.

"I just don't know why you brought her _here_." He said curtly.

"Where else could she have gone?"

"You could've put her up at a motel."

"She's heartbroken, Ozzie. I couldn't see her go back to the Flea after what she'd experienced. And I didn't want her to be alone after Isaac died."

"People die every day, _literally_."

"You're right, but not every kid sees someone pass away right in front of her eyes. She has no one else, and nowhere to go!"

"From what you've told me, she's made a pretty good nest for herself at the Fly."

" _Flea_. And it's not a _home_ , it's a market for homeless people to rob and for teenagers to pawn off stolen things. It's not a home. In her fragile state, people will take advantage of her. Besides, she doesn't really care for the people there; they don't care about her; it's not exactly the safest place for a little girl."

"From what I can tell, she doesn't really care too much for you either," Oswald said sardonically. "Yet another stray of yours you picked up off the street."

"She's not some stray, _Oswald._ She was Isaac Paddock's ward."

"Legally?"

"No. **Ethically**."

Oswald rolled his eyes: "For all you know, you're harboring a fugitive. You mentioned she had an alcohol habit; odds are she's done a little more than—"

"Really?" Sylvia hissed. She stood and leaned into him so Charleen wouldn't hear them. "You literally gave me an _order_ to kill your best friend's girlfriend, but sheltering an orphan girl, who just watched the closest thing she's had to a father die is too much for you?"

Oswald frowned and said strictly, "You don't know who she is."

"I do too!"

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Prove it, then. You said she's an orphan." He gestured in the girl's direction. "What happened to her parents?"

"Well…That's still up for debate."

Oswald's frown deepened as he stepped towards her: "You hesitated."

"Yeah, but…"

"Why did you hesitate?"

"Because…" Sylvia smiled nervously. "Well, according to Isaac, there's a possibility that Charleen may have _possibly_ —"

"What did she do?"

"…She _may_ have—but we don't know for sure—maybe…killed her own parents."

"Oh, for _fuck_ —" Oswald said irately, throwing up his hands. "Are you serious!"

"She was five when it happened, _allegedly_ —"

"—She's a _murderer—_ "

"—She's a _child._ And she has nowhere to go, Oswald! And the things she's had to do to get by!"

"She's probably a thief too, on top of it all."

"Do you realize how hypocritical you sound? 'She's a murderer'? 'She's a thief'? I'm a murderer—as are you— _and_ a thief, and half the crap I'm guilty of I've done because of _you_ ," Sylvia snapped, poking him hard in the chest. "She's a kid, who has been through a lot. So, what if she sleeps here? Because of what she's done, you're telling me she deserves to sleep in some fucking flea-ridden godforsaken place, keeping one eye open in any case some dickless motherfucker wants to rape her in the middle of the night once she's black-out drunk! Would you rather have that happen to her, Oswald? Would that be _better_ for you!"

"Of course not!" Oswald retorted.

He looked torn between his own self-preservation and that of the teenager's well-being in the kitchen. His voice softened at the image of what life Charleen had to live as he said delicately: "Of course I don't want her to experience _any_ of that."

"So, let her stay for a night, huh?"

She looked up at him desperately. Oswald glanced in the direction where the child was eating before he looked at and saw Sylvia's pleading eyes looking back at him. He bowed his head in reluctant agreement.

"Fine! Fine…" Oswald muttered. He cleared his throat and patted Sylvia on the arm. "You're a real empath, you know that?"

"I do."

"Good." He kissed her on the cheek briefly. "I'm going to bed. It's been a long night."

"Alright. Oswald?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you still going to do the interview with Hearst?"

"Yeah. Tarquin believes she can put me on a national scale."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow skeptically: "She can do all that, can she?"

"Your cynicism is noted, but she can."

"She's going to dig deep, Ozzie."

"Let her."

"Are you sure you want to take her on?" Sylvia warned. "We don't exactly have a positive background history."

"We'll be fine."

"All of this to reach a national scale?"

"It's even possible that, with her aid, I could reach an international scale—with as many viewers as she has."

"That's world domination, right there."

Oswald grinned mischievously, "You're only too right about that."

"You understand my concern though, don't you?"

"I hear you, Pidge. But trust me. It'll be alright."

Sylvia smiled when he kissed her softly on the lips; she returned it thankfully.

"Good night, sweetie." She whispered. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Oswald quickly left the room just as Charleen came in to ask if they had more cereal; she'd eaten through two full boxes, already. Afterwards, Sylvia showed her where the towels and soaps were in the bathroom so that she could take a shower, then guided her into the guest bedroom.

"This is huge." Charleen uttered, looking around and poking the bed.

"Yes, it is. I've put some of my clothes on the dresser so you can change into something more comfortable."

"Thanks, I guess. So, do you and bird boy use this room for, like, a sex dungeon or something?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Just curious what you, rich types, do with all these extra bedrooms. I'd make mine a dungeon," said Charleen mischievously as she jumped on the bed. "I'd put a few handcuffs in here" (She pointed to the end table) "and maybe a gun, for safety, you know. Anyway, I've noticed most of my clients like handcuffs."

Sylvia said dejectedly, "Most of your 'clients' are pedophiles. No one should be putting you in handcuffs except cops."

"Some of them _are_ cops," Charleen said quizzically, stepping off the bed before she did a backflip onto the carpet, an action that was met with one of Sylvia's astonished gazes.

She gave the floor a mild look-over of entertainment: "Sometimes, they bring their own handcuffs. Anyway, can you close the door? I'm gonna get undressed and I don't want you to see me naked and shit."

"Charleen."

She answered distractedly, "Yeah?"

"Did these cops give you their names?"

"Probably. All of them gave me a name to call them," Charleen said carelessly, pulling off her gray, dirty sweater.

When she did, Sylvia's heart pang in the most egregious way when she saw the scratches on her shoulders, and the numerous bruises that covered her arms as if she'd been held down in place. Her T-shirt was slightly wrinkled and torn along the hem.

"What names did they give you?" Sylvia asked unhappily.

"I just know their last names."

"Give them to me."

"Why?"

Sylvia sent her a stern glance.

Charleen looked at her curiously but she said the names without missing a beat: "Officers Fritz, Miller, Richardson, Dock…and some guy that called himself Mr. Daddy."

Sylvia's lips curled at the last name: "Why did he make you call him that?"

"I don't know. I didn't think to ask. I'm done talking about it, so can you, like, leave so I can get dressed now?"

"Sure. You don't have to come down if you don't want to. If I don't see you before tomorrow, have a good night. I'll be across the way if you need anything."

"Well, I won't, so good night."

Sylvia closed the door.

* * *

Sylvia readied for bed, lying in it, but she couldn't get comfortable.

She didn't know which facet of Charleen's life disturbed her more: The fact that police officers and civilians alike had manhandled and raped her be it against her will or otherwise, or the fact that Charleen had learned to become standoffish as it was the only way she could get by. Evidently, her discomfort and constant toss and turning wasn't affecting only her; Oswald sat up with an exhausted sigh when she'd turned on her side for the umpteenth time.

"What's the matter, Pigeon?" He asked tiredly.

"What do you think?" Sylvia asked, glancing up at him from her side. "Isaac's dead. Ed's not talking to us. Tarquin is an idiot. Margaret Hearst is going to come for you, if not the both of us. My brother killed Mario so you just know Falcone is going to take his pound of flesh; and that little girl in the other room has a life I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Take your pick."

"I know you have a lot on your mind, but it's not doing either of us any good fretting about it."

"You don't think I know that?"

"Just pointing out the obvious."

" _Obviously_."

"Not to add more to your plate, but did you happen to talk to Beals?"

"Did I happen to find the time to fire him? No."

"I thought that's what you were going to do today."

"Well, I was. But then I got a bit distracted when Victor Zsasz informed me that when Falcone gives the word, Victor will _assuredly_ kill my brother." Sylvia said snidely, glowering at Oswald from her side. "And just afterwards, Isaac died, so you'll forgive me for not being able to start on my to-do list."

Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He knew it was going to start an argument, yet he prodded the tiger. What else had he expected to happen?

While he had tunnel vision when it came to his own agenda, Oswald did notice how fretful she appeared, heard it in her tone too. He lied down beside her and lightly stroked her back with a consoling touch, smiling when Sylvia met his eyes with a doleful reproach. With his assurance, she moved closer, snuggling against him.

"I'm sorry for not having been attentive as I should've been," He uttered softly. "What you're going through isn't easy."

"Well, I've not made things easy for you either."

Oswald smiled at her attempt to assuage his guilt. He pulled her into him, and his smile widened when she grabbed the lapels of his pajama top, pulling him close so she kissed him. Sylvia slid underneath him, wrapping her legs around his waist, the hem of her night slip pooling above hers; he eagerly shifted his weight, bracing himself mostly to his side so he didn't crush her.

Their kisses became fierce and passionate; Sylvia let out an involuntary moan the moment his growing erection nudged the heat behind her black panties.

"You should consider lowering your voice," Oswald said impishly, "especially if you don't want your guest overhearing us."

"Or you can stop being so—" She began, but another moan escaped her when he rubbed his erection against her sex even harder.

"You were saying?"

"You're hopeless," Sylvia giggled.

Oswald kissed her neck, then licked her earlobe, nipping her playfully. When he did, Sylvia pushed her hips against his, causing his hard-on to grow and throb mercilessly.

His lust for her was always there and feeling her egg him on was forcing it to the surface. He pushed his pants down enough so he could free his cock, pressing it against the front of her panties so she could feel him. Sylvia persuaded him easily, lowering her hand between them, rubbing his shaft with a loose grip.

"You like feeling it, don't you?" Oswald said with a knowing smirk.

"All the time, and you know that."

"I do," He said sheepishly. "I just like hearing you admit it."

Sylvia wiggled her hips to move her panties down her legs, but Oswald stopped her. She sent him a curious glance, but her query was answered when he sifted her panties to the side and pressed his cockhead against her naked sex. He coaxed her to be still and silent; his cock moved slowly in and out, feeling her wet silk coat him by the inch.

"Oh _fuck_ —"

"Hush, Pet. Remember…?" Oswald tilted his head to the side, indicating Charleen in the other bedroom across from them.

"Easier said than done…" Sylvia whispered desperately, her back arching as he deepened his thrust. "Fuck… _Fuck_!"

"God…" Oswald moaned quietly, feeling her fingernails dig into his shoulders. Even through the material of his pajamas, he could feel them.

When the slow pace became unbearable, Oswald quickened his rhythm, clamping a hand over her mouth when Sylvia's whimpers evolved into unrestrained heightened moans. She was breathing hard, doing her best to stifle her moans. She ended up having to do the same to Oswald as he became swept up into the heat of the moment. His ardent moans became more than fervent when he came inside her.

"I fucking love you," Sylvia said breathlessly.

He smiled at her, saying, "I love you too."

He moved to lie down beside her, catching his breath.

"Are you sure you still want to do that interview with Hearst?"

"National scale," He replied tiredly, but the contentment in his face from their lovemaking was palpable.

"And if she manages to find all the ghosts of our past?"

"We'll deal with that when the time comes."

"Our past or the ghosts?"

"Both." Oswald assured softly. He kissed her forehead: "For now, go to sleep. We'll deal with whatever comes in the morning."

"Okay." Sylvia returned with a small smile.

Oswald cuddled next to her, wrapping his arm around her waist and laying his head on her shoulder. He swiftly kissed her there before he fell asleep.


	70. Seeing Ghosts

Chapter Seventy: Seeing Ghosts

* * *

Oswald awoke, hearing a fumbling downstairs. It was nearly midnight.

Slowly, he moved out of bed, careful not to disturb Sylvia, who was sleeping soundlessly beside him. When he made his way to the living room, he saw the same little girl—what was her name again—from last night meandering about. He'd watched her for a moment, noticing how Charleen (ah! That was her name!) wore Sylvia's purple top and shorts; it was only lucky that they'd been the same height, if only a little shorter on Charleen's part as she was still a growing teenager.

The girl strode from the kitchen to the living room within several paces before plopping down on the couch with another bowl of cereal, turning on the television. When the news flashed, the volume level was _loud_.

Oswald quickly moved forward, grabbing the remote from the coffee table to lower the volume before it awoke Sylvia, startling her in the process when she realized he was there.

"Holy fucking shit!" Charleen shouted.

"Shh!" Oswald hissed.

"Well, don't come out of nowhere like a goddamn ghost then—unless you _like_ giving little girls heart attacks!"

Oswald rolled his eyes. He could see why Sylvia would be partial to her; they had the same mouth.

"What are you doing out of bed?" He demanded, gesturing to her.

"I was hungry, Mr. Clueless. Don't you see the cereal? Anyway, why are _you_ out of bed? Shouldn't you be back up there, smooching with your wifey under the covers?" Charleen teased, smirking when she got an easy rise out of him.

"How dare you—"

"I know, I know. How dare I goad the King of Gotham? Ooohhhh, I'm so fucking scared for my life, help." She lifted her hands while holding the remote, and, with dramatization of a horror movie bimbo cliché, raised her voice to a higher pitch, "I'm gonna really get it now, help! Help!"

Oswald grabbed the remote out of her hands. Charleen suddenly slammed her bowl down onto the coffee table and stood on the couch, glaring at him in return.

"Give that back!" She snapped.

"Apologize first," Oswald ordered, holding the remote up to her eye-level. "Your petulant remarks may fly with her" (His eyes flickered upstairs towards the bedroom where Sylvia currently slept) "but they won't with me."

"What, you're just going to hold the remote all night or some shit?"

"If you think I won't take it upstairs when I go back to bed, you underestimate me."

Charleen knelt on the couch cushions and crawled towards the arm, leering at him dangerously.

"You know I was only fucking with you, right?" She said airily. "It ain't my fault if you can't take a fucking joke."

"That doesn't sound like an apology." Oswald chastised, watching her. "If you want this" (He held up the remote indicatively) "I'll need something in return."

"What is it?"

"I've told you once already." He smiled smugly. "It's not _my_ fault if you don't remember what that is."

"You want an apology." Charleen recalled snidely. "It's a fucking TV remote. I want to watch TV."

"And if that is something you still wish to do, you'll apologize for your egregious behavior."

"What are you trying to be, my dad?"

"Not at all. But if you want to continue to stay the night in my home, watch my television, and eat my food, I require an apology on your part. I want to hear you say 'I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. Can we start over'. You say those words _exactly_ , I will reconsider. Otherwise—"

"You'll kick me out?" Charleen questioned spitefully. "You're not gonna do what your wifey wants?"

Oswald sighed impatiently and placed the remote in the pocket of his robe. He leaned forward so Charleen stared at him with a spark of challenging in her eyes, but there was a subtle trace of fear detected in them as well.

"If you have any sort of self-preservation, you'll mind what I'm about to say right now, young lady." Oswald said sternly. "Whatever it is that Sylvia has promised to you is not going to be easily retracted by me, primarily since it keeps her content. And if I'm being politically correct, she's only given you refuge for a night. What comes after rests solely on you. If you continue to address me like I'm one of your flea-bitten friends on the street corner, you will not be permitted to stay here. However, if you speak to me civilly and behave as such, we will establish trust, and you and I will reach a compromise. Am I clear?"

Charleen frowned at him, but she nodded.

"Now that's all out of the way," Oswald said pointedly, taking the remote out of his pocket. "How do you want this to play out?"

Charleen glanced at the television, which was on the boring news channel, to her bowl of cereal, then to Oswald, who awaited her next move.

"Fuck…fine…" She grumbled, letting out a long, deep sarcastic sigh before she said brutishly, "I'm sorry for the stupid fucking way I've been acting. Can we fucking start over?"

Oswald raised an eyebrow and said smoothly, "No need to embellish. The words without the profanity would've sufficed."

He tossed the remote to her and she caught it with a sheepish smile. When she turned to change the channel, Oswald started to leave for the bedroom now that the noise had been thoroughly investigated. As he did, Charleen craned her head over the couch and said, "Do you wanna stay and watch the movie?"

Oswald startled at her invitation.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not excused," Charleen said playfully; the tone wasn't expected, and the seamless way she interjected her playfulness into the conversation was mildly disturbing.

Maybe it was because he showed her something that Isaac might've shown in the past? What was it that Sylvia said? Isaac had been the closest thing to a father figure Charleen ever had…Was she hoping to find someone to fill that void in the way Isaac Paddock had done?

Oswald doubted that role could be filled by him, but he took it upon himself to sit a cushion away from her. After all, the movie showing was a black-and-white, the typical oldies that he used to watch with his mother when he was much younger. Charleen side-glanced him in the way he'd done to her, and she grinned broadly when he put his feet on the coffee table; she copied him.

The movie was a slow burner; obviously, Charleen was not the most patient teenager around as she grew restless halfway through. She stood briefly to re-position, sitting on her own feet before she turned to Oswald completely, looking at him with a grin.

"Do you guys have popcorn?" She asked arbitrarily.

"It's in the cupboard," said Oswald distractedly, paying more attention to the movie than her, obviously.

"Do you have butter?"

"Yes."

"Salt?"

" _Yes_ , now shhh." Oswald put a finger to his lips and did the gesture.

"Can you go get it?" Charleen asked with a smile.

"You're the one that wants it."

"But you know where everything is."

"Where do you think the butter is?"

"It's in the fridge."

"And the salt is in the cabinet," said Oswald impatiently. "You seem like a smart girl; you should be able to find it just fine."

"Or you could go get it."

"And the conversation has made full circle."

"And yet, if you'd just gone and got it yourself, you'd have made the popcorn, found everything, and come back in the time it took for the conversation to come full circle," Charleen said smugly.

"That may be," Oswald looked at her with a sarcastic smile. "However, you still don't have what you wanted in the first place, so regardless of your intent, you lose."

"I wasn't _trying_ to win."

"Your victory isn't succeeded by your success but by how much you annoy me."

"You're a smart penguin, you know that." Charleen snickered.

"From someone who is abrasive as you, I'll take that as a compliment. Seeing as they, alone, seem so rare."

"Take it however you like, it ain't it."

"You're argumentative."

"You should be used to that, considering what you married."

"You have no idea," Oswald countered.

"Oh, I don't?"

"No. You don't."

"Does she always want the last word too?"

"Frequently."

Charleen leaned forward, saying, "What do you do when _you_ want the last word?"

Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling: "Would you just watch the movie?"

"You try to kiss her or distract her or something if you want the last word, don't you? Yeah, yeah, I think you would because around her, you're probably normally speechless, _especially_ when she kisses you first, huh?" Charleen said knowingly. "I've seen you two together last night; you two act like you're fucking teenagers or some shit."

"Are you _not_ going to watch the movie then?"

Charleen smirked at him, knowing he was dodging the subject, so she crossed her arms and said pointedly, "I'll watch the rest of the movie. But it'd help if you'd stop talking throughout; it's really distracting."

Oswald opened his mouth to state that it was the exact opposite, but he closed it when he saw her smirk widen with his knowledge of this. He simply rolled his eyes, turned up the volume a smidge, and watched the rest of the movie. He was engrossed in it when Charleen yawned rather loudly, and she stood up.

"I'm going to sleep. Tell me how the rest of it goes." Charleen said offhandedly.

"If you get cold, there are extra blankets in the hall broom closet."

She climbed the stairs and closed the door to the guest bedroom. Oswald lied down on the couch, content to watch the rest of the movie.

* * *

 _Clash_!

The sudden sound of glass shattering yanked Oswald out of his deep sleep, only for him to realize that he'd fallen asleep on the couch and the movie was rolling credits on the television. Hastily, he turned it off, getting to his feet and peering about to see the source of the disturbance.

And disturbed he was when he saw the picture frame shattered on the ground, the very one that held his certificate of sanity received from his time at Arkham. The thunder and lightning outside sent chills down his spine; not that he needed this to make him feel so uneasy.

Who had tossed the certificate off the wall and caused it to shatter in pieces? The only other occupants in this mansion were Charleen and Sylvia, both of whom were presumably still asleep.

A slow, steady eerie creaking startled him as he quickly looked around him.

"Sylvia?" He called, and Oswald mentally slapped himself for how shaky his voice said her name.

But the real unnerving thing happened when he looked over his shoulder to see the apparition of his father standing before him, wearing his own night clothes and holding a candle; the stress on his face would haunt Oswald for the rest of his dreams—but was he dreaming?

What had his father told him? That there were plenty of ghosts in this house, yes, and that they were among them. He stumbled forward, still unable to believe that Elijah was here with him.

"Father…"

"Help me…" Elijah spoke in a strained voice, his eyes beckoning.

"My god," Oswald muttered in disbelief, but he stepped towards him in reassurance. "Of course. How?"

"He's not to be a trusted!"

"Who?"

A violent thunderclap accompanied with the brightest streak of lightning blinded him temporarily. As disturbed as he'd been when he saw the ghost of his late father, he was even more so when the ghost disappeared. And following that was a hard knock on the front door.

When he opened it, two police officers stood in ardent concern.

"Sorry to bother you so late in the night, Mr. Mayor," One of them apologized.

"Yes. What is it?" Oswald asked wearily.

"Someone broke into the cemetery and dug up your father's remains."


	71. Charleen's Sanctuary

Chapter Seventy-One: Charleen's Sanctuary

Author's Note: Hope everyone around the world is doing okay with this Coronavirus. In light of these hard (and weird) times, I've been able to write another chapter. Hope this helps cheer someone up Be safe, my Lovelies!

* * *

"You saw _who_ last night?"

Oswald rolled his eyes when Sylvia had repeated herself once again. He predicted her reaction, but it irritated him no less when she sounded steadily more skeptical as he tried to describe what he'd experienced last night.

He sat on his throne in the Meeting Room of the mansion with Sylvia adjacent to him. They both glanced precariously over at their teenage guest sitting in the living room, watching cartoons; Charleen's over-all morning disposition was pleasant.

While Charleen ate a bowl of cereal and drank a cup of coffee (Sylvia's influence, no doubt) and watched morning cartoons, distracted, it seemed like the optimal time to discuss the supernatural incident.

"Are you asking me to regale the story once again?" He said defensively.

"No. I got it the first time. It's just hard to believe."

"The ghost of my deceased father came to visit on the exact night some miscreant violated his resting place—what about that is so hard to believe?"

She tilted her head towards him: "I'm not saying I don't believe you."

"Well, your cynicism isn't exactly reassuring," said Oswald with a small grudgeful pout of his bottom lip.

He took the cup of coffee she'd proffered earlier; up until now, it had been untouched, but seeing as his morning was just starting out horribly, he didn't even mind the coffee's bitter aftertaste.

"What did he say?"

Oswald scoffed.

"No," She insisted. " _Tell_ me. What did he say?"

"I told you already. He said someone can't be trusted."

"And he didn't say who?"

"No. He disappeared beforehand."

"That's weird."

"You're telling me." Oswald muttered, shaking his head and glaring at his cup.

"And just seconds after, the police come knocking on the door." Sylvia contemplated aloud, tapping her chin with a thoughtful 'hm'.

Oswald inwardly smiled at her attempt to figure out this inexplicable phenomenon. He suspected that while she didn't completely believe his tale, as she rarely believed in anything due to her atheistic perspectives, Sylvia—much like Ed—always believed there was an explanation for everything, even if that explanation was the worst humanely possible thing to ever happen. If anything, she was trying to help him feel like he _wasn't_ losing his mind due to the stress he'd currently been experiencing.

"What do you make of it?" Oswald asked curiously before taking another sip of his coffee, grimacing a second after.

"I don't know what to make of it. But your father believes there's someone in our inner circle who can't be trusted. He was one of the few who had your best interests at heart. I think we should believe him."

"I didn't question his intentions."

"Presentation-wise, I'd have hoped he would just say the name of this person. I figure if you're going to come back from the dead, wouldn't you just _say_ it? Why be so cryptic?"

"Who knows how these things work!"

Sylvia glanced at him, taken aback: "I'm just saying that if I was a ghost and I knew someone was going to fuck with you, I'd make a point to plan this shit out. Write a goddamn _note_ or something—don't waste time breaking picture frames. Ghost Hauntings 101."

"Well, if my father appears again, I'll point out your critique and then you two can discuss his ambiguous methods between yourselves," said Oswald acerbically, scooting out of his chair as he moved to stand.

"I'm trying to be supportive."

"I think you are, but I don't need theories as to why he wouldn't or didn't say this traitor's name. I need to find him—or her" (Oswald glanced arbitrarily at Charleen, who giggled at a cartoon) "as well as the location of my father's remains so I can put him back to rest, _properly_."

"Which would you like me to do?" Sylvia volunteered, standing to her feet.

"Neither. I'll take care of it myself."

"Oswald, you _do_ realize that you have two press conferences in the next three hours."

"I _do_ realize this."

"And you also realize that because of your timetable, you don't have time to 'take care' of _anything_."

"What are you suggesting?"

Oswald raised his chin a little, watching Sylvia as she approached him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer to her. The feeling of her body pressed against him was welcoming, and warm.

"I'll interrogate the ranks," She answered with a calculating smile. "I'll see who it is that might be trying to cause problems for you. The same person may be responsible for desecrating your father's grave. Either way, I'll be handicapping one person or two."

Oswald cradled her face between his palms first before his fingers traced her jawline; he kissed her, smiling against her lips as his burdens were lifted from his shoulders; the weight of it, running the Underworld and the city as one person, seemed less disconcerting now.

"You do that."

"Would you prefer me to bring them to you dead or alive?" She asked delicately.

Butterflies fluttered about in his stomach when she kissed him again, this time her tongue flicked upwards to lick his upper lip. Her dark tone might've had something to do with it too.

"Alive," Oswald decided as he wrapped his arms around her; his hands ghosted underneath the hem of her shirt, stroking the small of her back. He closed what little distance was between them. "But if they prove to be impudent, you have my permission to escalate that to 'barely'."

"'Barely alive' is my default," Sylvia purred.

" _You two remind me of the Addams Family."_

Oswald let out a short exhale of marked irritation while Sylvia smirked at him as they both glanced to see Charleen standing next to them.

"Don't you have some cartoon to watch?" Oswald asked starkly.

"Don't _you_ have a meeting to run or some shit?" Charleen responded smartly, putting a hand on her hip. "If you spent as much time going after the fuckers who fuck up your shit left and right as you do rubbing fronts with her" (She made an obscene gesture) "you'd be running this 'underworld' five times better."

"Your criticism isn't warranted."

"And yet, it came out anyway. Sylvia…" (Sylvia looked at her curiously) "Do you guys have, like, bubble bath stuff or anything?"

"Are you planning on staying the day?" She asked gingerly.

"No! No, of course not. What a stupid idea. I just wanted to take a bath before I went back outside."

Oswald rolled his eyes again, glancing at his watch: "I don't have time for this. I have to get going."

"Shoulda spent less time..." Charleen muttered as she turned to walk away.

"Excuse me?"

"What?"

"I didn't hear you," Oswald snipped. "Would you like to run that by me again."

She turned back on her heel and said snidely, "I said you should've spent less time _necking_."

Oswald's disposition towards her insolence was surprisingly calm as Sylvia watched him step towards her; he spoke lowly, "How frail your memory must be if you have already forgotten what we talked about last night."

Sylvia raised an eyebrow when Charleen and Oswald had been glaring at each other and it was up until that point where Charleen's attitude faltered at his warning.

"Yeah, but—" She began to argue.

Oswald sent her a stern glance, snapping his fingers and pointing to the living room.

Charleen huffed, but she walked out of the room in a silent pout. Sylvia watched after her before looking at Oswald in surprise.

"What _did_ you talk about last night?" She asked interestedly.

"Civility, and the importance of manners."

" _Really_?"

Oswald grinned at her show of incredibility. However, he didn't mind the way she was looking at him, with a whole new expression of unveiled desire at his small show of parenting a teenager, even if it was somehow articulated through subtle threats. His strict posturing, and over all duty to restore order always seemed to strike a chord in what was Sylvia's tangled mess of sexual attraction to him. Maybe it was because she was a natural free spirit and when it came down to it, sometimes even a spirit needed grounding.

"You sound surprised," Oswald mused.

Sylvia sat on the edge of the table, gazing at him in fascination.

"Well, she normally snaps at _me_ when I try to steer her in the right direction. I've never successfully shut her down like that. Not yet anyway."

He stood in front of her, smiling when she looked up at him inquisitively. He held her chin with his index finger and thumb, encouraging her to meet his eyes.

"That's because you frequently enable her."

"Hey! I can be strict when I wanna be. And, just so you know, the girl is a bat out of hell," Sylvia reminded. "Sometimes, you need to let the beast out before it can be tamed. I did all the hard work for you."

"And when the beast is out, how do you intend to domesticate it?"

"By nurturing it and letting the beast know it has no reason to feel threatened by yours truly."

"Is that what you intend to do with her?"

"Isn't that what _you_ do on a daily basis?"

Oswald smirked: "Alas, you're not a beast."

"Oh, I'm not?"

"No. You're not." He kissed her forehead: "You're a phoenix."

"I feel strangely validated and empowered by that," Sylvia returned, playfully scrunching her nose at him.

"As you should be."

"Oh, I am. Don't you have a meeting to go to?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Running late as ever."

"The meeting can't start without its Mayor. And a meeting that can't start without you is a meeting worth attending."

"That's good advice."

Sylvia raised her hand dismissively, "It's what my dad used to say about his court trials. Who's your meeting with?"

"A few of our associates."

Sylvia cracked a grin: "Penguin's associates or the Mayor's?"

"I'm wearing the Mayor's hat this morning."

"Sounds boring."

"It will be."

"And your associates are…?"

"Politicians."

"Very boring," Sylvia quipped. "Predominantly male, cunning, boring, swinging their dicks around about analyses and diagnostics?"

"Aren't all politicians?" Oswald joked. "That's a vague way to describe a conglomerate."

"Ha. You're a politician _and_ you have a dick—I'd say you're a part of that conglomerate."

"With one caveat, surely."

"That 'caveat' being that you're not boring." Sylvia said slyly.

"I feel strangely validated and empowered by knowing you think that."

"Excellent callback."

"Thank you." Oswald chuckled; he kissed her one more time before looking at his watch again and sighing in displeasure. "I really do have to go."

Sylvia nodded, and said smoothly, "Take the limo to your wonderfully boring conference. I'll be taking my car."

"Driving the kid back to the city?"

"Most likely. On the off chance she doesn't want to go back, and she wants to stay here, how do you feel about that?" Sylvia asked carefully.

Oswald glanced at the living room where Charleen had remained sitting as she giggled as a cartoon character was shot through a cannon and he looked back at Sylvia.

"As long as she remembers to talk to you in a civil manner, I'm fine with it."

"Are you, really?"

He smiled guiltily, saying, "Honestly, rudeness and impetuousness aside…I don't mind having her around. She's easy to deal with."

"That's interesting, coming from you, who's married to someone who's often rude and impetuous. Good to know I'm easy to manhandle at your leisure."

Sylvia bit her lip to suppress her need to jump him when Oswald leaned into her and kissed her neck. His tongue licked her earlobe; she stifled a quiet moan.

"Believe me. It's an absolute pleasure." He kissed her swiftly on her cheek. "Time to go."

He straightened and Sylvia felt the heat rise to her face.

"I'll see you later tonight."

"What do you want for dinner?" She asked, although she felt embarrassed for how breathless she sounded.

"You know what I like." He returned with a small smile. "I leave that decision for you to make."

"Ooh, decisions, decisions. Have a good conference. I'm sure it'll be tedious and extraordinarily pedantic."

"As pedantic as they come."

He swiftly kissed her before he left the mansion.

Sylvia hopped off the table and headed into the living room to see Charleen switch the channel to a different cartoon show.

"The bubble bath stuff is in the bathroom, under the sink," Sylvia answered her question from earlier and Charleen gave her a look.

"I'm going to take one and then I want to go."

"Alright."

"Okay. Like, I really mean that." Charleen said, standing up.

"I'm sure you do."

"Good. I'm glad you're sure."

She started to leave, and Sylvia offered offhandedly: "I mean, we _could_ drop by the Flea, pick up your things and then you could just stay another night just until the storms are over; the forecast of heavy rainstorms, and all that. If that's something you want to consider."

Charleen turned on her heel with a hesitation as if she hadn't heard her correctly.

"I guess we could, but—hey—just so you know, I'm not going to stay the _entire_ week. It's not like I wanna stay here or anything, like a rich _loser_ or something."

She headed to the bathroom and closed the door.

Sylvia chortled at her half-hearted attempt to sound genuine.

* * *

The Flea looked no different than what Sylvia had remembered, back when she'd met Ivy Pepper for their first rendezvous, back when she needed a spy to watch Delilah…Things seemed less chaotic during those days.

The car had been parked outside, a couple blocks away to deter leering prospectors from the idea to rob or disassemble her vehicle. Meanwhile, Sylvia followed Charleen, who strode a few paces ahead, to the place where the latter kept her things.

"My squat's just up here," She said candidly, pointing ahead to a vague area.

The 'marketplace' that was the Flea was the generic version of a festival, full of booths and yet still janky and sketchy as an empty, dark alley with broken toilet seats and dingy couches, all but eaten away by moths. They stopped a few steps away from what looked like an abandoned apartment complex; broken windows, shattered roofing; the mold climbing up the wooden stairs and porch seemed to be 90% of its make-up. The smell of settled rainwater, wet dog, and mellowed piss was rank enough to make one want to puke in the poor excuse for rose bushes that had been planted along the porch.

Sylvia held a hand to her nose; even Charleen gave her dwellings an embarrassing once-over after she'd spent the night in a mansion. Her slighted gaze and blushing cheeks made Sylvia half-smile apologetically.

"I'll just be a minute," Charleen said quickly, jerking a thumb behind her. "I just got a few things. You stay out here."

"Are you sure you don't need help?"

"Of course, I'm sure. Just stay out here, 'kay?"

"Sure. Take your time."

"Okay. But don't touch nothing."

Sylvia nodded, and she watched Charleen head inside the dilapidated excuse for a home.

One minute became two. Two minutes became ten. And Sylvia's radar that detected the difference between paranoia and instinct started blaring. She sighed inwardly, knowing the odds of Charleen becoming infuriated once Sylvia intruded upon her personal space were huge; by this point, it was better 'safe' than 'sorry'.

When Sylvia walked through the door, its ear-cringing creak was the first to unnerve her. It was surprisingly dark for a building with so many broken windows; the sound of water droplets falling into a body of water, even while there was no puddle in sight along the corridor of hardwood floors.

The sight disgusted her. Not because she'd been living the fancier life these days, but because it brought her back to the way she'd lived when she'd run away from home.

Her life lived on streets at some point when she'd run away from her father's judgmental eyes and his unfair criticisms; stealing things that didn't belong to her to pawn off to Fences, who'd only give her the barest scraps of change, even if the items taken were genuinely expensive; drinking alcohol bought by even more irresponsible, older kids to dull the pain of feeling lesser than the rest of Gotham's elite.

Sylvia felt her heart pang again for Charleen.

What Isaac **knew** was that his unofficial ward was living on scraps after having been thrown into a harsher world than what she likely deserved (even if she did supposedly burn her parents alive in their own bed). What Isaac didn't **understand** was that this horrid world was her reality, and she'd lived in it so long that the idea of living a different reality, even a better one, scared her senseless. Sometimes, a girl would continue to live her terrible, wretched life than choose a better one out of comfort—not comfort of riches or leisure, but one of familiarity; for change, even for the better, was scary itself.

Sylvia's ears perked when she heard a couple of voices down the hall, a few rooms away. Their voices sounded younger.

"Where's the dough, ginger?" A young male's voice spoke; he was likely in his late teens.

"I don't have it," Charleen's voice came out cynical, but by now, Sylvia could detect the cynicism was trying to hide what really lurked beneath the surface: Fear.

"I saw you come into the Flea with the Mayor's wife."

"So? She was just giving me a ride."

"Come on. You're slick enough, sneaky enough. You're telling me you didn't get _anything_ off her?"

Sylvia slipped right beside the door from where the voices came. Peeking through the hinge of the door, she saw there were three guys in the room; two burly male teenagers and a skinny one; the latter had spoken. He seemed to be the Alpha of the pack.

"Look, I don't have the money. And, honestly, the three of you are pigs anyway so fuck it." Charleen said snidely. "You want to live here? Fine. You want all this" (She moved to a piece of furniture that had served as her bed and threw a bunch of jewelry and money onto it) "take it. It's yours."

"You're being awfully generous."

"No. You're just being a fucking jerk, Miles."

 _Miles_. Sylvia narrowed her eyes. It wasn't any of the cops that Charleen had named earlier, so this was likely a 'co-worker' of hers. Not one of the best people to hang around with from the looks of it.

"This ain't enough to cover what you spent."

 _Ah_. Sylvia rolled her eyes. Charleen owed money.

"You were _rolling_ in it," said Miles coldly. "You had money flowing out of your pockets. You said you were going to pay me back in full, but then you end up buying the whole Flea booze from every nick and dime store you could find. Suddenly, when it's time to pay me back, you ain't got any money. I wonder why that is."

Charleen frowned and held her up hands: "Fine. I took your money. I tried winning some games, but they're all rigged. And _yeah_ , I did have a lot of money at one point that I got from an old geezer; he was my sponsor, but…"

"I thought the whole point of trying to double my winnings was to attract a larger, richer crowd? But that plan really fell through like all your other ones. You really wanna do me a favor, kitten, you'd go back to your 'sponsor', get what you owe, and bring it back to your _real_ sponsor. Me. How's that?"

"He's dead now," Charleen replied uneasily.

"Ooh, color me shocked. A _real_ shame. Really. Paddock was the prime score. You know, I was always curious. Did you have to fuck him to get that kind of cash?" Miles asked, stepping forward. "The way you fucked me?"

The back of his hand brushed the side of her face and Charleen flinched.

"Do you have any idea what you're gonna have to do in order to pay back what you owe?"

"We still have the back-up plan."

"The 'back-up plan'? They don't trust you anymore than I do."

"No, they do!"

"So how come you haven't done anything about it?"

"You know better than anyone else that this shit takes time."

"Well, I'm impatient. And you know what. You're going to pay back what you owe in _other_ ways. You…" He drawled as he grabbed her chin in his hand, "are gonna have to entertain not just me, but all my pals here. Maybe, even, at the same time, since you're going to be just as generous with yourself as you've been with my wallet."

"No, _no_ ," Charleen said angrily with an attempt to push him away. "You said you wouldn't do that to me. You said—you _promised._ Just one person at a time—you _promised_."

"I make the rules. I make the changes. And I've decided to the change the rules. It's just what I do."

Sylvia frowned.

So, Miles wasn't a co-worker or some loan shark. He was a pimp, and Charleen was his ne'er do-well.

"You said you'd give me time."

"Well, you were given six months to pay back what you owe me; that's more time than I've given anyone. You tapped out, and now I'm gonna take what you owe me. Just like before, except I think I'm gonna be a little rougher this time. I'm feeling on edge."

Once Miles grabbed Charleen and yanked her shirt above her head, Sylvia burst inside and slammed the door shut behind her. Immediately after, Miles and his two goons turned around, wide-eyed; their leader held Charleen by the neck as he shoved her in front of him, a switch blade held sharply against her carotid.

"Who the fuck do we have here?" Miles snickered.

"You know who I am, you little brat," Sylvia said calmly.

"Don't mess with these people; they have a gun!" Charleen squeaked when Miles punched her in the face as his goons pulled out their Glocks from behind their backs.

"Sylvia…You mean, Penguin's wife?" Miles said surprisingly, looking from Charleen, who stayed down on the ground, to Sylvia.

"You know what she looks like," The youngest of his pack hissed. "Stop acting like you're dumb."

"I doubt it's an act," Sylvia scoffed.

Miles took one look at her before he held up the switch blade, pointing it in her direction.

"Dude…"

"Shut up, Freddie," Miles snapped at one of his goons. "I know what you're gonna say. We can't hurt her, 'cause she's a lark."

"She's _the_ Lark, man," Freddie hissed, glancing at Sylvia, clearly intimidated. "Show some respect."

"What does it matter? Word on the street is that Lark don't hurt kids."

"Yeah, well…"

"Do you, Lark?" Miles asked smoothly, stepping a foot in her direction. "You _help_ us poor children, don't you?"

"Only people who really deserve it," Sylvia said unhappily.

She glanced at Charleen, who rubbed her aching jaw reprovingly.

"It'd go against your nature if you were to hurt any of us. I'm seventeen," said Miles smartly. "That, there, is Freddie; he's fifteen. The other one is Joe. He's fourteen."

Joe said sarcastically, "I'm actually sixteen…fucker."

"No one asked you, _Joseph_."

Charleen slowly stood up and Miles kicked her in the stomach, _hard_.

"Stay down, piglet." He spat. "You're not going anywhere. Just cause she's here to visit, doesn't mean you're getting off easy. In fact, I was kinda hoping to do that myself, but first—"

It happened fast. Sylvia lunged forward, decked him square in the throat so he fell, gasping for air. Joseph was punched in the face; Freddie was kicked in the gut, and his and Freddie's guns as well as Miles' switchblade were smacked out of their hands and tossed through the window. Groaning, Freddie and Joseph warily got to their feet, aching already, and Sylvia looked at them dangerously.

"Stay here!" Sylvia ordered when the two were about to bolt.

"But you don't hurt kids…" Freddie began.

Sylvia pointed to the floor; Freddie and Joseph slowly moved to that part of the room and shakily sat down, glancing at Charleen who looked up at Sylvia in confusion.

Sylvia moved towards Miles, who'd finally caught his breath. She grabbed his hair by the roots and moved him off his feet; Charleen quickly stood and walked after her as Sylvia opened the door to the bathroom, all but kicking it down to get inside.

"Wait!" Miles stuttered. "W-wait! What are you—urghghhh!"

Sylvia shoved his entire head into the commode; the water was a murky brown and yellow; there was no telling how long that putrid smell would linger, or how long that waste had mellowed before his face was thrust inside. When his fingers clawed the bowl of the toilet and his shoes kicked underneath him as he tried to stand, Sylvia slackened her grip on his mane, allowing his head to lift out of the water.

Shit covered his face, and he puked up the piss he'd accidentally drank from being held under.

"I'm going to ask you one time," Sylvia said, her voice laced with an angry, eerie calm. "You're going to—"

"Fucking bitch! Fuck you!"

She shoved his head into the water again, and this time she held him under for a total of thirty seconds. His hands raised to scratch the back of her wrist, and when she brought him out again, Charleen moved inside the bathroom completely with a half-attempt of rescue.

"Sylvia…" Charleen said quietly, eyes widened to reflect surprise, if not astonishment. "Just let him go…He's always like this, it's—"

"Stop talking." Sylvia said darkly, her eyes flickering at her furiously. "I'll deal with you later, young lady."

Charleen urgently sat on the side of the bathtub, crossing her ankles on the ground as Sylvia allowed Miles to raise his head up for air. He puked again and managed to open an eye to glower at her.

"How long have you been taking advantage of her?" Sylvia questioned coldly, pointing to Charleen.

"She gave herself to me!" Miles snapped, glaring at her. "She came to me first! She's a fucking twat who—"

Sylvia shoved his face back down in the water. This time, she flushed, and the vile decay swiveled before running down the drain. The water ran clear, and when Miles had a moment to breath he shouted, "SHE ASKED FOR IT! I DID NOTHING WRONG!"

The toilet bowl filled up with water and he was forced to hold his breath. Sylvia looked at Charleen, whose eyes cast downward as Miles was pulled back up for air.

"You knew she was taking money from Paddock," Sylvia said curtly.

"Yes! Yes…" Miles coughed. "She said…god…" He coughed again.

"Was this a way for her to pay you back!"

"Yes!"

"How much money did she take from you?"

"Twenty grand," Miles hacked, rubbing his throat. "Twenty fucking grand."

"Where did _you_ get twenty grand."

"I won it, gambling."

"Did she take it from you, or did you give it to her?"

Charleen stood: "He gave it to me!"

Miles sputtered, "She said she could double my winnings! She said she was good at gambling! Sh-She lost it all on a fucking double down at some fucking table! She _owes_ me, you **fucking** cunt!"

Sylvia shoved his head down into the toilet again, and this time she held him under for a minute, glancing at her watch. Charleen stepped forward.

"Sylvia, I owed him forty-thousand dollars. Isaac…" Charleen started helplessly. "Isaac knew I was living bad, but he didn't know I owed people money. He gave me money to try and get me a better life, but I couldn't do that knowing I owed Miles. I had to get rid of him first—"

"I said 'be quiet'!" Sylvia snapped, pointing at her. Charleen nodded quickly, biting her bottom lip to stop herself from crying.

Sylvia held up Miles' head, and he started sputtering again.

"You're a real scumbag, aren't you? You've been turning out a teenager, you _fucking_ prick!"

"Not a teenager on paper—she was a part of it…" He managed weakly. "Wait! Wait!"

She threatened to submerge his head again before he waved his hand and thrust it inside his jean pocket, holding out a driver's license; Sylvia snatched it from him; her anger imploded when she looked at it.

It was a faux driver's license for Charleen, which had her look a lot older than what she really was in the picture; her name and address were printed on it, and her stated birth date claimed her to be 21 years old.

"I just…I find the targets," Miles said quickly. "They pay in cash. Charleen gets them drunk, and they pass out later. They don't remember anything…"

"So, you're getting people drunk, tricking them to have sex with a minor, then blackmailing them to rob them blind?"

Miles snickered, "Pretty good, huh?"

"You're a teenager who gave another teenager twenty grand," Sylvia chastised. "You think because she's bad at gambling that she owes you. She doesn't owe you anything, but an apology. You're a fucking _idiot._ For going after unsuspecting drunks, and ruining their lives, that makes you a _predator_."

She slammed his head against the toilet bowl, and Miles grunted, lying down on the floor, unconscious. She looked at Charleen who stepped a pace backwards.

"You are something else," Sylvia said harshly, standing. "I was under the impression you were this misunderstood, helpless little girl. But, in reality, Miles is your pimp. You work for him. I could be sympathetic if it were not for the fact that you've been taking advantage of an old man's kindness, conning him for _months,_ and didn't even try to tell him what you were really doing with his money, even when he was, literally, on his death bed!"

"I told him I was sorry—"

"No, you're not. You're not sorry for sleeping with other men. You're sorry you've been conning a dead man. Every time you took his money, you lied to his face. He offered you sanctuary. And how did you repay him? You treated him with indifference and _disrespect_!"

"Yeah, but—"

"—Why did you lie to him?"

"I just—"

"Why did you lie to _me_?" Sylvia asked furiously.

"Because—"

"Those men you've slept with," She added indignantly. "Their marriages, ruined. Their careers, ruined."

"Yeah, but I—"

"What this your idea or his?"

"It was mine," She admitted.

"And those names you gave me? The officers?"

"Miles…I mean… _we_ set them up."

"Fuck me," Sylvia muttered, looking at the ceiling. She shook her head. "Was _any_ of what you told me true? Was all of this an act?"

Charleen looked up at her and said with wringing hands, "No."

"So, what was the plan, then?"

"I just…"

"Why did you come here? Why were _they_ here?"

"They came by," Charleen said meekly. "They were here when I came here. I really _was_ just going to come and get my stuff. I didn't want you to find out about this, I just" (Her bottom lip and her voice were shaking). "I just…I j-just…"

Miles groaned from the floor, rubbing his head. As he came to, he looked at Sylvia: "Oh fuck, she's still here?"

"I am." Sylvia returned curtly. She leaned against the wall. "So, what was the plan where I'm concerned, Charleen? Was I next on your to-do list? Work me over with your sad sob story, make me go after the people who allegedly wronged and raped you, and then I get rid of anyone who had any connection to you and Miles' little con?"

"That _was_ the plan," Miles uttered, rubbing his head again. "We all know you're a bit of a charity sap. We all know you're always pulling people off the street, trying to help them. Seemed stupid to ignore an opportunity like that."

Sylvia frowned, glancing at Charleen: "What were you planning on doing to me?"

"It doesn't matter…" She muttered weakly, staring at the floor.

"You were going to go through with it, it seems."

"Like she said," said Miles, standing up. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters. To _me_!" Sylvia said heatedly.

"We were…" Charleen looked up. " _I_ was going to stay with you for a week, build your trust and when you and Penguin were okay with me being in the house, I was going to let Miles come inside and we were going to…to take what we could in one night. Hop a train out of the city…"

"Damn good plan." Miles murmured, glowering at Charleen. "Would've gotten away with it if you didn't come up here and ruin everything. Leave it to you to fuck everything up all the time."

"Enough!" Sylvia scolded.

Charleen looked like she wanted to die where she sat as she stared at her lap. And despite it all, Sylvia felt for her.

"You know what _you_ are, Miles?"

He looked at her pointedly.

"You'll manipulate someone who's less privileged than you, fuck them, threaten and abuse them until they think everything _you_ feel is wrong with them is their fault. You strike me as someone who has the balls to shoot a person in the back, but you don't have the nerve to stab them in the face. You really need to rethink your gumption, kid. And you…" She looked at Charleen, who couldn't meet her eyes, and she spoke sarcastically. "I was capable of a lot of things when I was your age. I didn't build up the immunity to stop feeling guilty, at least not until I started working for Fish Mooney, so congratulations. You're a bonafide criminal. You can fuck up the mafia now. That'll open up a lot of doors."

Miles chuckled, "Yeah. Fat chance of that ever happening. She's too weak-minded. The only door she knows how to open is between her legs."

Charleen gasped when Sylvia grabbed him by the neck and shoved his face down in the toilet. She didn't remove her hands until his arms and legs had stopped squirming. By then, he couldn't say anything, let alone slew an array of misogynistic insults. Sylvia stood, wiping her hands on her lap.

"You're not going to kill _me_ , are you?" Charleen whispered.

"No." Sylvia said coolly. "I understand why you did what you did. People like Miles are personable, and they can talk you into anything, make it seem like it was _your_ idea instead of theirs."

"Yeah. That's exactly what he did."

"What I don't understand is why you still suckered a man like Isaac who only had your best interests at heart, who cared so much about you that his dying wish was for me to take care of you."

"That's what he said?"

"That's what we discussed."

"You didn't take care of me. You killed the guy that was keeping me afloat!" Charleen said angrily. "You killed the guy who was helping me survive!"

"No! What I did was remove the thing that was holding you back from your true potential. You want to make something of yourself in this town, you need to find your own path. People who are arrogant and pretentious like him are not worth depending on for survival. You want a sure thing? Depend on _yourself_!"

Charleen cocked her head to the side: "I know you're trying to be helpful and shit, but I'm really just the victim in all of this. Miles was—"

"Miles was a manipulative little shit, abusive in all degrees, and that's something you can't help. What you and he chose to do to Isaac was _repulsive_. Isaac doesn't know that you betrayed his memory, that you played him for an idiot; you'll never get the chance to apologize for it. That's something you'll have to live with for the rest of your life. And you deserve it."

"Wow," Charleen uttered cynically. "Nice words spoken to a little girl."

"If you're big enough to con people, lie, cheat, and steal from others, you're big enough to get hit with the truth. Now, if you want to get out of this rancid place you and Miles have called 'home' and go where the _real_ criminals live, you're more than welcome to stay with Oswald and me."

"Wait. After all this, you still want me to stay with you?"

"Of course. I made a promise to Isaac. Unlike some people, I try to honor the dead. Also, you're not sleeping _here,_ are you?"

Charleen raised an eyebrow: "You're a little crazy, aren't you?"

"Yep. And don't you forget it."

Charleen smirked when Sylvia left the apartment. She quickly followed.

"So, what are you pitching me now?" She asked eagerly as Sylvia sat in the driver's seat.

"A home, however temporary you'd prefer. A sanctuary, even, if you want it to be."

"So, am I supposed to be like your protégé or something? Am I gonna be Lark's right-hand or—"

"Well, in order to be my right-anything, we'd have to be friends. But according to you, we're not. Remember? You don't even like me that much."

Charleen shrugged, putting on her seatbelt as she sat in the passenger's seat: "I don't know. That's the first time I've ever seen anyone really straight-up kill someone."

"You disapprove?"

Charleen grinned broadly: "Nah, I thought it was pretty fucking cool. No one's really stood up for me like that."

"Does that mean you like me a little?"

"Yeah, just a _little_. Um…You…You're not gonna tell Penguin about any of this, are you? He doesn't strike me as someone who'll forgive this type of shit."

"Not unless you give me a reason. But you're right."

"So…?" Charleen said uneasily.

"How's this?" Sylvia offered. "I won't tell him that you were scheming to rob us, and _you_ don't tell anyone, including Oswald, that Miles drowned in a toilet."

"Deal. So, we're good?"

"Sure, Charleen."

Charleen smiled at her happily: "Call me 'Charlie'. All my friends do."


	72. To Find A Lead

Chapter Seventy-Two: To Find A Lead

Author's Note: Hello, guys! Thanks for all the reviews! Here's another chapter for you! :p

* * *

Sylvia appeared at the GCPD the following morning, leaving Charleen to sleep in. Sylvia had left her forty dollars to order pizza for lunch, knowing this would take a little time. When the Desk Sergeant saw Sylvia, he waved her over with a congenial smile, and she came fully inside the room.

Jim and Harvey Bullock looked as though they had just come out of the Medical Examiner's room and appeared, in a word, 'disturbed'. Seeing Sylvia, Jim's eyebrows raised in concern.

"Vee." He greeted with a polite smile. "You're here."

"So I am," Sylvia joked, holding up her hands. "In the flesh and blood. What happened to you?" She glanced between the detectives. "You two look like you saw a ghost."

"Ghosts don't exist in this town," Harvey said morbidly. "Because no one stays dead."

"Oh yeah: Galavan came back from the dead, but we put him back in his place…Satirically speaking. He didn't manage to find a way to put his blown bits back together again, surely?"

"No. But it's not just him anymore. People might as well be rising from their graves."

"Or getting corpse-napped."

Harvey chuckled, "I don't think that's a thing in Gotham."

"That's still up for debate," Sylvia replied, thinking of Oswald and the appearance his dead father made to him the other night, as well as his reason for being here. "Anything I can help with?"

"Nah. Don't worry yourself about that, Little Sister. It's the same-oh, same-oh."

"Another day, another dollar?"

"Something like that." Harvey replied indifferently. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Just visiting."

"Business or pleasure?"

"With you, Harvey, it's always both," Sylvia drawled, sending him a crooked smile to which Harvey snickered, patting Jim on the arm as he walked away, muttering something about getting a coffee.

Jim watched after him before he turned to look at her.

"So, what was your _real_ reason for coming?" He asked seriously.

"Business."

"Really?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, this isn't for me," Sylvia said offhandedly, dismissing his concern with a small twinge of humor in her voice. "It's just a matter of gathering information before I pop a bullet in someone's head…" (She glanced around at the other police officers) "Obviously, hypothetically speaking."

Jim furrowed his eyebrow at her once he detected a malevolent tone in her voice, but to preserve the light which had shortly developed in their relationship, he maintained an aloof approach to her 'hypothetical' situation.

"Come upstairs with me."

"Right-oh, Daddio."

Jim led her upstairs to his desk after side-glancing Harvey who'd closed the door to his office as he still ruled the GCPD as the acting-captain, at least until someone replaced Nathaniel Barnes; the latter was currently serving time in Arkham for trying to off Jim in an effort to carry out his execution.

The virus was one hell of a thing.

"Have a seat," Jim offered to his desk, rolling his eyes when Sylvia sat on the edge of it rather than in a chair as he had only proffered a second ago. "Hypothetically speaking…" (Sylvia smirked at his phrasing) " _why_ would you need to kill anyone at the moment?"

"I'll answer that question in a minute—"

"—I'd prefer it if you answered it now."

"I will if you'd let me talk and stop interrupting me."

"We're talking about proceeding with an intent to murder."

"We're actually just discussing a hypothetical situation, one that _might_ involve removing the head of someone who may or may not deserve it," Sylvia responded slyly. "A conversation created for theoretical discussion, nothing more."

Jim shook his head: "You've been living with Penguin too long; you're starting to sound like him."

"Hearing this come from you, I'll take it as a compliment."

Jim sighed deeply, looking at his empty cup on the surface of the desk, as he said nonchalantly, "This kind of conversation requires coffee. Do you want one?"

"No thanks."

"Breakfast bagel?"

"You have those here? I thought cops just ate doughnuts."

"Alvarez brought bagels this morning. Harvey brings doughnuts."

"Sure, I'll take a bagel."

"Cream cheese?"

"Obviously. I'm not a psychopath."

He left briefly to the break room, tending to the coffee machine before he returned with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, as well as cream and sugar packets. In the other hand was a bagel slathered with cream cheese. He placed the bagel on a napkin on the surface of his desk, scooting it to the edge on which she was still perched.

"Thanks-a-bunches." Sylvia beamed as she took a bite, placing it down on the napkin; after, she wiped her palms on her jeans.

"Care to tell me why you're hypothetically thinking of killing this alleged offender? Or are we going to just eat breakfast and do this back-and-forth as we normally do?"

"Calm down, dude. I'm easing you into it."

Jim chuckled although he still felt uncomfortable with how smoothly his sister could speak about murder. What she wanted to do was kill another human being, and while he had watched her kill Theodore Galavan in front of him, it still didn't put him at ease to know just exactly of what she was capable. As it was, he still thought of her as his little sister, the cop's sister, not the sister of a cop who was married to Penguin. To her credit, she made the segue to such a crime somehow easier to stomach and that was something Jim had to appreciate most about her.

"Tell me what happened," He offered, gesturing to her after he took a sip of his coffee.

"This person I'm looking for committed a crime."

"Hypothetically speaking?"

"Yes."

"I would've hoped they'd have; you never decide to end a life unless they've come against you. Or Penguin. Or me."

"Just me in general, yes. An accurate observation."

"So, what did they do to you?"

"In hindsight, they didn't do anything to _me_. This person I am looking for, or _persons_ —I'm not exactly sure how many are involved—went to the cemetery and dug up a grave."

Jim placed his cup down on the desk and leaned forward pointedly: "We're still speaking hypothetically, right?"

"Yep."

"So, you're _theoretically_ looking for a grave robber."

"Yeah."

"What'd they take from the grave? Jewelry or—"

"They took the body."

Jim nearly choked on his coffee; his face turned pink, and a vein nearly poked out of his forehead when he had finally stopped. Sylvia looked at him, concerned, but he slowly paled back to his usual hue. Sylvia watched him curiously as he smiled apologetically.

She smirked: "For a second, I thought you were going to die."

"And you just stood there." Jim grinned sarcastically. "So helpful."

"You weren't turning blue yet, so I figured you were okay."

"Thanks a lot."

"Anyway," Sylvia sighed, throwing her hand towards his direction dismissively. "That's the gist of the situation. So, hypothetically speaking, have you heard of anyone taking dead bodies?"

"Something to that affect," Jim resigned, rubbing his throat.

"What the hell does that mean? You've seen them?"

"No, but there's an instance where a woman who was originally dead was seen walking out of a morgue the other day."

"You're joking."

"I'm not. She was alive, at some point."

"That's weird. Are you sure that she just wasn't dead and just decided to wake up, start breathing, and walk out of the morgue?" Sylvia offered logically.

"Fox says it's unlikely."

"Because nothing is impossible in this city."

"That's what he said," Jim said strictly. He took another drink before looking at her. "Whose body did these grave robbers steal…Ahem… _Hypothetically._ "

"Oswald's father."

Jim frowned: "This isn't a real hypothetical, is it?"

"I'm pretty sure you knew that when we started talking."

He reluctantly accepted it with a quick raise of his eyebrows and a deep through-the-nose sigh: "So, someone took your father-in-law's body. Easy enough, right? Do you have any suspects?"

"No. If I did, I'd have interrogated them already."

"Has the Mayor spoken to anyone in the GCPD about this?"

"A couple officers received this news and told him directly in the middle of the night," Sylvia responded airily. "I assume the police are tracking this already, but naturally, the process is slow. I need answers now."

"You mean _Penguin_ wants answers. He _is_ the one who asked you to do this, isn't he?"

"I volunteered."

"Of course, you did."

Sylvia sent him an annoyed glance to which Jim smiled remorsefully, apologizing for his catty remark. Knowing Sylvia was in all aspects working for Penguin was never something Jim could get used to, especially now as she served under him as one of the Heads of the Crime Families. Jim gave her a once-over, drinking the rest of his coffee after.

"So, what does your boss think about all of this?" He asked ironically. "Knowing Penguin as well as I think I do I can imagine this grave robbing situation hasn't really settled well with him."

Her tone attempted dismissal but failed miserably as she said with a hint of concern, "He doesn't have time to think about any of this. He has a lot of stuff going on with his father's body going missing, the whole Margaret Hearst thing happening, and Alex—"

"Alex?" Jim pipped interestedly. "What about him?"

Sylvia ate the rest of the bagel before answering: "Oswald wants me to fire him."

"I'm surprised you hadn't already."

"He needed a job. And don't roll your eyes at me! He's doing great with the one he has. He oversteps his boundaries at times, but otherwise, he's a great worker: He found out Jillian was lying to me about who she was, and her boyfriend was selling crack cocaine to fucking kids. Honestly, I underestimated his usefulness."

"Ah. And Penguin doesn't like him around because—"

"—Because Alex and I used to date, yeah."

"Not to add fuel to the fire, but _did_ you fire him yet?"

"I'm getting around to it." Sylvia said defensively. "But I've been _busy_. I was going to do it but then Victor and I talked about Falcone, about _you_."

Jim noticed the break in her voice when she mentioned the inevitable hit on his life and how quickly she passed the opportunity to discuss it further with him.

Sylvia continued irritably, "And then Isaac passed away, leaving Charleen in my—"

"—Who's Charleen?"

"She's a kid."

"You're taking care of a kid?"

"Well, a teenager. She's fifteen."

"That's Bruce's age."

"Yeah, you're very perceptive," Sylvia said sarcastically. "Anyway…Isaac asked me to take care of her so I'm doing that. It hasn't been easy…"

"That was his death wish?"

"Yeah. It was."

"Does she live with you?"

"Yeah."

"Is she a good kid?"

"No, but we're working on it."

"Trying to fill the void?"

Sylvia stiffened at his words: " _No_. I'm not filling any void. I don't even know what you're talking about."

Jim sat back in his chair; an ankle settled on his thigh as he bent a leg to nonchalantly go over other police reports in folders so he could appear disinterested by the conversation now taking place.

"Nah." He uttered just loud enough so she could hear. He looked up from the folders. "You don't have any idea what I'm talking about."

"I _don't_."

"You don't see it? Because I do."

"You mean to ask," Sylvia said uneasily as she slid off the desk, "if I'm using Charleen to fill the void Demetri left in my heart when he killed my daughter? That the whole reason I didn't mind taking her under my wing via Isaac's death wish is secretly an ulterior motive to mold, raise, and train Charlie in the same way that I might've done if Csilla hadn't been shot in the fucking head by someone who I considered to be a real friend of mine?"

Jim nodded.

"That one, exactly," He confirmed carefully.

"Well, fuck you. I'm not. Charlie is…" Sylvia gesticulated with difficulty as she spoke. "She's just a teenager who needs some guidance, a path."

"She needs an orphanage, a foster home, and then maybe someone who can adopt her." Jim said coolly. "A child needs someone who will show her the light when all is dark, a way of becoming a mild-tempered citizen. You'd only—"

"—I'm not going to screw her up!"

"I didn't say that."

"But you were thinking it! I grew up in this world." Sylvia said snidely, gesturing to the GCPD to indicate Gotham's Underworld as a whole. "It's my city, my ocean, and—"

"And your aim is to mold her into your image?"

"She needs a guide."

"She needs a mother. You want to guide her to a life of crime, mayhem; that's precisely what Penguin gave you, and that's exactly why you can't leave the life of a criminal behind. It's because of his influence you can't."

"Don't talk about him like that. He's the best thing to have ever happened to me and fuck you if you think otherwise."

"Vee, Charleen needs a _mother_."

"Her mother is dead."

"Then a different mother."

"I'm not going to put her in a fucking orphanage."

"She needs _parents_!"

"She has something better. _Me_." Sylvia said curtly, pointing to herself. "She isn't 'good girl' material, Jim. She has lived on the streets since she was, what, five fucking years old. And she seems to like it enough. You cannot put a phoenix in a cage and expect it to thrive within its prison. Just because you put the cats and dogs outside doesn't mean it will be grateful to you for your protection. It doesn't work like that!"

"So why was Isaac taking care of her if she 'likes' the streets so much? If someone needs to look after her, she's evidently not doing a good job of it herself."

"Isaac was the only one who cared enough to give her money, to keep her safe, but…"

"But?"

"Well, it turns out Charlie and Miles—er—some other guy…They were conning him out of money ever since she'd known him."

"And you're taking care of her because Isaac Paddock wanted you to take care of someone who literally tricked him while he was dying?"

"It was _his_ dying wish."

"Where's Miles—"

"—Who?"

Jim tilted his head in her direction pointedly: "You said some guy named Miles was working with her. Where is he now?"

"I don't know," Sylvia lied smoothly. "Never met him. Charlie mentioned _briefly_ that he was, in a sense, a pimp of hers."

Jim's face fell: "She was…?"

"Yeah. She's been busy," She answered without his need to ask the question. "Anyway, she's not doing that anymore. She's been with Oswald and me for a couple days."

"So, you've taken her under your wing."

"Something like that."

"And putting her up for adoption…?"

"Is out of the question. The system doesn't care for girls like her. And I do not trust the system enough to even try to let it get its shit together in time before it corrupts her. All it'll do is dump her on the door step of some tiresome foster parents who'll throw her out within the first week—Believe me, I know what I'm talking about—or some fucked up pervert who's only in the foster game for quick tail."

Jim held up a hand when she readied herself for another slew of debate and withdrew his comeback in favor of a less poisonous discussion.

"A mini-Sylvia." He muttered, sighing deeply. "Gotham is in a new kind of danger."

Sylvia smiled at his humor, crossing her arms lazily over her stomach as she stood then leaned against his desk. She gave his empty coffee a once-over, debating whether she would get herself a cup. Before she could decide, Jim stood and placed a specific folder beside her.

"What's this?" She asked, glancing over the manilla-colored envelope.

"His name is Bazara," Jim answered as he flipped it open with a single finger and pointed to the black-and-white photo of a bald, grumpy-looking man. "He was arrested a few years ago for grave robbing, taking jewelry, important artifacts, money, even flowers from graveyards."

"Did you arrest him?"

"No, that was before I was assigned to the GCPD."

"Ever met him?"

"No, but he has a reputation for the crime you're dogging. He's a lesser known felon, but worth looking into, considering his background."

"Not much of a career man if he was arrested. How did he get caught?"

"He was apprehended finally when he tried to desecrate a burial an hour after the procession had ended—"

"That's barbaric!"

"It gives me an overwhelming sense of comfort to know you think so. Anyway, he was recently put on parole a few months ago."

"How do you know this?"

"His parole officer telephoned our unit since he'll be living within our jurisdiction. Granted, they never do. They always run."

"Ah. So a waste of time telling me _that_. So, how did he manage to get on parole?"

"He was sentenced to prison for five years, got out in four for good behavior. Either way, you could try him for size."

"You think it's him?"

"No. Honestly, I don't. But at least you can go back to Penguin and tell him you have a lead." Jim returned with a pensive grin. "I know how much you like to make him happy, and I figure the world owes you a break."

"Wow! Thanks a lot, Detective Gordon," Sylvia drawled. "You're really coming through on these favors."

"No problem. By the way, uh…" Jim leaned forward and touched her knee gently. "I'm sorry about what happened to Paddock."

She tilted her head in his direction skeptically: "You never showed any sort of remorse for a dying crime leader, why start now?"

"I know how much he meant to you."

"Well, thanks all the same."

" _Harvey!"_

Jim and Sylvia exchanged curious glances when they heard Leslie Thompkins' voice ring throughout the GCPD station. When Harvey answered the call, he came out of the Captain's office, looking around for the source before his, Sylvia, and Jim's eyes fell on the former medical examiner as she stormed inside with what was a stern-looking body guard, name unknown.

Sylvia and Jim headed downstairs as Harvey asked her what he could help her with.

"As acting captain, I demand that you arrest Detective Gordon for the murder of my husband!" Lee ordered.

Jim uttered quietly, "Lee, please."

"'Please'? 'Please' _what_?" Her voice shook. "You didn't have to kill him."

Lucius Fox, who was the new medical examiner casually had come out when he heard the commotion and tried to mitigate the conversation by offering politely, "Dr. Thompkins if I may—Your husband took a drug that—"

"Nathaniel Barnes was infected with the same virus. _He's_ alive. Jim spared _his_ life." She glowered at Jim specifically. "Yet he gunned down Mario on his wedding day."

Jim looked as though he might have wanted to squish himself into a little ball and roll away.

She took a step towards him.

"You're the _real_ virus, Jim. You seep into people's lives until you destroy them. You—"

"Hey, wait just a minute!"

Lee glared at Sylvia when she spoke up.

Jim had seen his sister's protective nature come out several times where it always concerned Oswald and he shouldn't have been so surprised to see it now come to the surface as Sylvia stepped in front of him, between him and Lee.

"Jim has done a _lot_ of stupid shit in the past, Lee, but killing Mario was probably one of the smartest—"

"Oh, you think?"

"No, I _know_. Mario was infected just like Barnes, and if you've gone to Arkham recently—and no disrespect to the late Captain, everyone—you'd know he isn't exactly on a picnic. He's ranting and raving in there about guilty parties and executions." Sylvia stated pointedly. "I know you loved Mario, Lee, but he _was_ going to kill you—jealousy is a fucking monster…"

"And you believe all of that?" Lee said angrily.

"I do, as a matter of fact." Sylvia responded patiently. "Jim loves you—"

"—Vee, leave it alone—"

"—No, I won't." She looked at her brother. "I'm not going to stand here and let anyone tell my brother he's a virus—"

"You've thought of that a couple of times, I bet." Lee snapped. "How many times has he come in between you and Penguin—"

"—Plenty—"

"—Yet he's never gunned him down in _cold_ blood—"

"Not to say he didn't lead us to think he did at one point," Harvey interjected. "That whole thing at the pier was a thing of beauty—"

"Not now, Harvey!" Sylvia snipped. She looked at Lee with an attempt of empathy. "You're right. Jim is a bit rambunctious at times" (Jim gave her a look) "but he's not a murderer, Lee. He's—"

"Defend him all you want," Lee snarled, dismissively throwing her hand towards her direction. "Neither of you have seen the end of this. It's not over."

She gave Jim and Sylvia one more evil eye before she stormed out of the building in the same way she had entered. When she left, Sylvia turned to look at her brother, who stood awkwardly beside himself.

"Well, that was interesting," Harvey said slowly. "Uh…Okay, everyone! Back to work! Nothing else to see here!"

Everyone did as they were told. Meanwhile, Jim lowered his eyes to the ground as he pondered Lee's words in his head, the guilt resurfacing. A small hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his shameful reverie and he half-smiled when Sylvia stood in front of him.

"Are you okay?" She asked gingerly.

"Yeah."

"Cool. I was a little shocked by all that. Who knew Lee had sharp teeth?"

"Yeah," Jim chuckled uncomfortably.

"I knew there was a reason why I liked her so much."

"I guess so."

"Are you going to be okay?" Sylvia asked again. "I just didn't want you to feel like I emasculated you in front of her ex-fiancée and all of your friends by rising to your defense or anything."

Jim gave a good-natured laugh: "Actually, it felt pretty good."

"Good to hear. I've gotta go chase my lead that you so generously gave me."

"Good luck."

"You too. And Jimmy…"

"Yeah?"

Sylvia hugged him tightly and he patted her back, hearing her whisper, "Be careful."

"You too. Love you."

"Ditto, dude." Sylvia smiled and she left the precinct.


	73. Another Road Trip

Chapter Seventy-Three: Another Road Trip

* * *

Before setting out to hunt for this grave robber, Sylvia went looking for his true name. An amateur hitman wouldn't care too much about his profile, but a career man would. Bazara's name was known in his police records, but whether that was his name on the streets or otherwise was something entirely different.

While Sylvia worked the ins and outs of this trail, berating people on the phone when they came up short, or trying to eek her way into his phone records via illegal, and illegitimate methods, she wasn't alone at _Lean on Vee's_ , and others had been listening to her conversations.

Namely, Alex.

He sat at the bar, passively listening to Marcus talk. He watched Sylvia pace around the balcony upstairs before he turned to Marcus, thanked him for the beer, and listlessly gave him a ten-dollar tip for keeping him predominantly occupied. At his crass, Marcus frowned; it was an unusual expression, a contrast to his natural soft features, but Alex paid him no mind.

"Do you think Sylvia needs our help?" Alex asked to no one in particular.

Sitting at the bar alongside him were Gabe; the bruisers, Dagger and Chilly; and the Kabuki Twins, Jack, and Joel. Marcus gave them all a sardonic glance before he spoke on their behalf: "I doubt it. She's doing okay on her own."

"Nah, I think she needs some help." Alex stated as though he hadn't heard him.

Marcus rolled his eyes upwards as he muttered, "Ella necessita tu ayuda tanto como yo necesito cáncer de próstata."

"What was that? I heard—"

"—Nunca," Marcus uttered with a shrug of his shoulders, shaking his head.

Alex gave him a once-over before he shrugged carelessly, leaving the bar, and heading upstairs to the balcony where Sylvia was going off on some poor French caller on the Mainland about expired imported goods.

"Sylvia," He said quickly, hopping up the stairs three a time. " _Sylvia_!"

She hung up on the other caller impatiently, rolling her eyes when Alex stood in front of her, catching his breath. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees as he did.

" _What_?" She questioned. "In case you can't tell, I'm pretty busy at the moment."

"You're looking for Bazara?" Alex said breathlessly, looking up at her. "I know…I know how to find him!"

" _You_ do?"

Alex straightened, although he did send her an annoyed glance at her obvious show of skepticism: "Yes. _I_ do. He's been in prison for a while."

"But he's out now."

"I know."

"And you know where he is?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

Alex grinned slyly, "I can't be telling you all my secrets now, can I? How would I continue to be of use if I did?"

"You've been very useful to me," Sylvia remarked plainly. "You're just an incredible dick about it when you are."

"Good to know. Look, I know you are doing it purely to make your husband happy, but I'd be honored to help you find this prick. If, that is, you'd have me."

Sylvia pondered that choice. It was ironic. Alex was honored to aid her in this mission, trying to make her happy by making Oswald happy. Little did he know that he would make Oswald even happier by putting in his resignation. Still, Sylvia had no other leads except for the one that Jim had given her, and this lead had gotten the hell out of Dodge the moment he could give his parole officer the slip.

"We've not had a good rouse since we went after Tetch," Alex persuaded, playfully prodding her hip with his elbow.

Sylvia shrugged: "Fine. I guess…"

"You're hesitating. Why're you hesitating?"

"Just…" She started to tell him. "Afterwards, we'll have to talk."

"About?"

"Nothing," Sylvia said with a small smile. "It can wait for now. Where's Bazara?"

"That depends."

"On?"

Alex grinned broadly: "Are you ready for a road trip?"

"The last road trip I went on ended with me being stuck down in a well with a dead body. If this one ends in the same fashion, I'm demoting you."

"Ohh…ouch…ugh…" He mimicked getting stabbed in the shoulder. "That hurt…augh!"

"Shut the fuck up." Sylvia swatted him on the arm, but she giggled when he dramatically fell to his knees holding an invisible dagger as he pulled it out from his upper half. "Get the fuck up, Alex; we don't have time for this!"

Even after she said it, Sylvia could not stop giggling when he slowly turned on his stomach, reaching up to her as he twisted his face into a fake painful expression.

"You'll have to go on without… _without me_! Auughhhh!"

"Get the fuck up. I'm not playing."

"You'd just leave me here to die?" He gasped in faux betrayal. "Out here, in this blizzard and cold?"

"Nonsense. I wouldn't leave you here to die."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"I'd use your body for kindling."

"Goddamn," Alex chuckled, getting to his feet. "That's harsh. Even for you."

"Survival of the fittest."

She started out of the club. He quickly followed her out.

Marcus, Dagger, Chilly, Gabe, and the Kabuki twins stared after them, all glancing at one another with skepticism and cynical stares. Whether Sylvia saw it or not, Alex was trying to weasel his way back into her heart. If he could not do it with his sexual remarks, he was going to try to do with the dark humor that Sylvia found too irresistible to ignore.

* * *

The trip itself was a twelve-hour drive, no breaks. Bazara lived nearly 500 miles outside of Gotham's city limits, at least that's how Alex mapped it out via his mysterious sources. Stopping for gas, food, bathroom breaks, and anything else in between. Assuming Alex's sources checked out, and there weren't any other interruptions on the way there and back, it was going to be a two-day road trip. Telling Oswald where she was going but not with whom seemed to be the easiest way to go.

She had grabbed a change of clothes, pajamas, toiletries, that type of thing and stuffed them in all in a medium-sized carrying bag, which she placed in the trunk of her car.

Oswald was waiting by the car, prim and proper in his suit.

"All this effort just to find a grave robber," He mused when Sylvia closed the trunk.

"The effort is irrelevant if it means putting your mind at ease," She remarked without a beat. "You'll be okay here with Charleen without me?"

"Please. I have faced more abominable monsters than that little girl. I'm sure I will survive."

"You think so. _Now_."

"I _know_ so."

"And you're still going to do the interview with Hearst?"

"As planned."

"Mmm."

"You've nothing to worry about," Oswald reassured, hearing her doubtful tone.

"I've seen her profile in the newspapers. She looks like a very stern woman." Sylvia muttered, lifting her eyes uneasily to meet his. "She's like that librarian at school who would give you that stink eye if you returned one of her books in any other condition than how you got it."

Oswald chuckled at her analogy, kissing her cheek: "I'm just disappointed that you won't be there to watch me put her in her place."

"I know. I _do_ like seeing you knock people off their pedestals." Sylvia whispered, smirking at him.

"I know you do."

"I'll be at a hotel so maybe I'll catch it on the news." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I'll promise to watch it. You'll look handsome as ever, but the pictures and media do you little justice."

"Ooh, flattery." Oswald drawled.

"I know, right." Sylvia kissed him again and he returned it.

"Good luck on your trip."

"I'll call you at the rest stop."

"I'll be waiting on pins and needles."

She crawled into the driver's seat; once her body was fully in the car, Oswald closed the door for her. Sylvia rolled down the window, smiling when he leaned in for a good-bye kiss. It lasted longer than the last, and they felt a certain longing to be closer before she reluctantly started the engine.

"What are you going to be doing for the rest of the day?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Charleen wants to watch another movie, so after my meetings, I guess that'll be the last thing to cross off on my to-do list."

"Aw, you're her 'movie buddy'. That's so cute."

"She's the perfect companion," Oswald returned with a small smile. "She doesn't poke holes in the plot; she just enjoys it."

"That's a remark about me, isn't it?" Sylvia pretended to be insulted.

"Not everything has to make sense in a movie, Pigeon."

"Sorry for distracting you with my nitpicking. Didn't think it'd bother you."

Oswald smirked as she managed to get out of the car.

"Any other distracting habits of mine you'd like to criticize?"

As she closed the driver's door in a playful bout of a tantrum, he found himself pinning her against the metal frame, and feeling one of her legs wrap behind his to keep him locked within her warm embrace.

"Last time, you didn't even let me finish the movie," Oswald offered.

"Well, at least I let you _finish_. I could've just left you high and dry."

He heard the not-so-subtle sexual implication about their most recent movie night together, and the idea of reciprocating it was so tempting. She leaned into him, her lips pressed against his and her tongue licking between them to coax them apart, aching for an invitation. Her hands lowered from his shoulders to his butt, giving it a frisky squeeze.

"I doubt you have time for this," Oswald reminded her softly. "You have a long trip ahead of you."

"If we have enough time to argue, we have enough a time to fuck."

"You're insatiable."

"And you're incorrigible. You can't get me hot and bothered and not do anything about it."

"On a contrary," Oswald whispered. "It's one of my favorite things to do."

"That's so cruel."

He smiled inwardly when he felt her hands move to his belt, playing with the buckle. She was mischievous, but there was a surge of energy behind that flirtatious mask. He took her soliciting hands, placing them on his chest, holding each of them there as he returned her salacious kisses slowly. Despite his reluctant denial to her wishes, there was an unspoken promise in the way he kissed her back. A promise to satisfy her deepest urge at another time.

"It's so hard to stay away from you." Sylvia muttered.

"It's only for two days."

"Might as well be weeks."

Oswald snickered, "And here I was thinking _I_ was the hopeless romantic."

"Given the choice, I'd shrink you down to the size of my thumb and put you in my pocket."

"You have the genius of a madman."

"It's a _five-star_ pocket."

"Oh, well then, that's a _lot_ better. I misjudged you. "

"Yes, you did. I'm a gentle giant," Sylvia uttered with a smirk. "I take care of all of my thumb-sized people."

"There would be more than just me in that pocket?"

"A _whole_ town."

"I revert back to my earlier statement."

"About having the genius of a madman?"

"Yes."

"Damn." Sylvia sighed with a small quirk of an eyebrow. "I was doing so well."

Oswald snickered again when she gave him a small lick on his cheek and got into the car once more.

"I'll call you tonight," She promised.

"I'll look forward to it. I love you, Pigeon."

"Love you too, baby."

She waved at him as she peeled out of the driveway.


	74. The Hotel

Chapter Seventy-Four: The Hotel

Thank you, SilverIce523, for your reviews. They always make me smile! 😊

* * *

Alex met Sylvia on the outskirts of Gotham, waving at her as he carried his own suitcase, placing it down at his feet the moment the car stopped in front of the building at which they agreed to meet. She'd pushed a button in the car that popped open the trunk; he threw his suitcase in, and then saddled into the passenger seat, closing his door, and smiling at her expectantly.

Sylvia noticed his casual glance, but she paid it no mind.

They started on the road with Sylvia at the wheel; Alex reclined in his seat, looking out the window with a humble expression on his face. The silence between them was only broken by the radio with its occasional static. They made relatively light conversation throughout the trip, small observations of large poster boards, and the on-and-off joke about the past, but they listened to the radio more than anything. Five hours of driving later, the radio became complete static.

"So…" Sylvia started coolly, side-glancing at him. "Do you wanna tell me how you know this Bazara guy or are you going to continue to keep that a mystery?"

Alex shrugged, gathering his arms behind his head as he leaned further back into the seat, his ankles crossed lazily on the floorboard: "He was just a guy I used to work with."

Her eyebrow quirked upwards: "You two were partners?"

"Always the surprised tone."

"Well, it's just that it surprises me that you're actually able to work with someone else." Sylvia said pointedly. "You're always talking about being the 'only rooster in the hen house', I figured working with someone else might give you a small-dick complex."

"I can work with _anyone_."

"Can you, though?"

"When have I ever showed that I couldn't?"

"You seemed reluctant to work with Victor recently."

"That's because you two have fucked in the past."

"Excuse me?"

Alex looked at her curiously when he heard her startled tone. She kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other cavalierly rested on the gear stick in any case she had to up or down shift due to the traffic flow; currently, they were on a long stretch of flat land, so they managed to keep a pace of an average 65 mph. By this time, they'd arrive at the hotel, check in, sleep, and the following morning, they'd make their visit to Bazara to interrogate him about his prior experience for grave robbing.

"You and Zsasz...?" Alex trailed off, substituting the words he might've said with the obscene gesture instead.

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "Victor and I have _never_ fucked."

"But he said—"

"Either you took his implications to get under your skin to heart, or you have _grossly_ misquoted him."

"Well, I'm glad you find it so funny."

"It _is_ funny." Sylvia giggled, smirking at him.

"Guess that's something else you have in common."

"Contracts, working for hot-tempered bosses, and having the occasional milkshake, yes, but fucking each other isn't one of them."

She put on her blinkers, moving into the left lane to pass a car with flashing hazard lights.

"Not that it hasn't crossed my mind," She admitted nonchalantly.

Alex frowned: "So, you have…?"

" _No_. We're just friends. Close friends, but _friends_."

"Oh, good."

"Even if we had, it's not like you could do anything about it," Sylvia stated carelessly. "You're not my boyfriend anymore. Remember?"

"No, I know. Anyway…The thing with Bazara…"

"Got it. Focus on the mission. You were saying?"

"Right. Bazara and I _were_ partners for a little while. For only a couple months. He wasn't too bad. He had a bit of a 'I'm better than you' complex, but he had some good ideas."

Sylvia frowned, glancing at him uneasily: "You robbed graves too?"

"No!"

"I mean, it'd be okay, I guess if you did. There was one time I had to get into this fucking crypt and take a sword off Tabitha's old great granddaddy to kill her brother…you know, for a second time. Not that we ended up using it: took a goddamn bazooka to get rid of him."

"Tabitha…?"

"Tabitha Galavan, Theodore Galavan's sister."

"Right, the woman's name you took in place of your own—Isabella woulda lived and blamed 'Tabitha' for everything. _That_ Tabitha?"

"Yep."

"Can I ask what she did to earn that kind of treatment?"

Sylvia looked at him and said coolly, "I guess there's no harm in telling you."

"Is it a long story?"

"Kinda, but for simplicity, I'll give you the short version. Basically, her and her brother were playing Gotham to get the mayor's chair, but it was all a ploy to gain control of Gotham City, and, ultimately, wipe the Wayne family clean by killing Bruce Wayne. Monks and rituals, chants: all that."

"How does a person like Galavan control Gotham without being, like, a criminal?"

"Easy. He finds the leader and weakens him."

"So…Penguin?" Alex guessed.

"Yep."

"Penguin doesn't seem like the type to bow down easy…I mean, he kinda annoys me but he's spunky."

"Well, Galavan knew that too. So, to control Oswald, they—Galavan and his sister—kidnapped his mom; when she served her purpose, Tabitha stabbed her in the back, and she died in Oswald's arms."

"Jesus," Alex whispered, shaking his head with disgust. "That's awful!"

"Yes. So, you can understand why I don't care for the bitch."

"No, no. I understand completely. That's nuts! Now, I kinda feel bad for treating Penguin like shit."

"Yeah, Oswald's had it rough. Something similar happened to his dad, but that's not Tabitha's fault. His step-family tried to kill him, but they ended up killing Elijah instead."

"Elijah?"

"His dad's name was 'Elijah'."

"So, Tabitha kills his mother, and Penguin's new 'family' killed his dad."

"Yep."

"That fucking sucks."

"Yes, it does."

"I'm surprised he's able to trust anyone. I guess he's lucky he can trust you, right? And your judgement?"

"Well, that depends," Sylvia muttered.

Alex quirked an eyebrow at her scoff. At first, he looked like he was going to let it go, but he leaned forward interestedly, although he tried to lead her into the conversation with his sincerity.

"What do you mean 'it depends'?"

"My judgement has been known to flake from time to time."

"I don't understand, though. You're the most perceptive person I've ever met. Fuck, you call me out on my own shit half the time when I don't even see what's in front of me."

"In hindsight, it's really hard to see what's right in front of you," Sylvia uttered uneasily.

Alex shook his head though, trying to understand: "But you literally see _everyone._ You know what their ulterior motives are before _they_ do. You see them for what they are, what they're not, and—"

"The one time when that skill might've been most helpful, I allowed myself to be blinded by friendship, and my own goddamn compassion." Sylvia stated loudly, glaring at him quickly before she moved her eyes back on the road.

Stunted by her sudden angry outburst, Alex's words stalled. He gave her a quick once-over. The held the steering wheel with a vice-like grip, the whites of her knuckles glaringly obvious as she squeezed the gear stick as if to hide her bitterness.

Alex softly offered, "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"It's not 'nothing'. I admit I don't know you as well as I thought I did, but I know when you're upset."

"I'm not upset."

"I said something wrong," Alex figured it out. "What did I say wrong?"

"Nothing!" Sylvia snipped, biting her tongue when her self-loathing slipped out. "You didn't do anything. _I_ did."

Alex blinked incredulously, "What do you mean 'what you did'? You didn't do anything."

"Precisely! I _didn't_ do anything."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes, shaking her head. But she felt like it might come out in one way or another. And if anyone could pity her most, it would be Alex, wouldn't it?

She uttered the name: "Demetri."

"Who?"

Sylvia gritted her teeth furiously, but she said with forced calm: "The one time I needed to be perceptive, the one time I really needed to see what was right in front of me, I didn't. Okay? I didn't see it. I didn't see him. The _real_ monster behind the farce."

"Who was Demetri? What do you mean?"

Sylvia sighed deeply. She didn't want Alex to know, but it seemed as if this was a conversation that he wouldn't drop. She inhaled deeply and then let it out slowly.

"I had a daughter."

"Really?" said Alex, surprised. "What…?"

"Oswald and I came back from the congratulatory party at the Sirens, the one celebrating his victory of becoming Mayor. We left Demetri with Csilla. He'd been so good with her; he was with me when I gave birth to her. We all were close." Sylvia said quietly.

Alex listened intently, but the dread inside his heart became greater as she spoke.

"I trusted him enough. He trusted _me_ enough. He basically took an artery out of his arm just to prove that he was loyal to me. After some time, I started to believe him. Oswald was still a little paranoid; he didn't believe in Demetri. With respect, Demetri did basically try betraying me with another employee of mine."

"So…Demetri…?"

"Yeah," Sylvia whispered, looking at him sadly. "Demetri killed her. He shot Csilla in her bed while Oswald and I were out. I was so angry at him; I killed him right there. But…It was too late."

"Fuck…" Alex muttered, shaking his head. "I'm really, _really_ sorry, Sylvie. I…I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing you can say. I know."

"So, Penguin…"

"He was angry with me for a while," Sylvia said understandably. "I hated myself for weeks, months, even. Doubted my own judgement, couldn't trust myself."

"You seem to trust yourself now though. What changed?"

"Falcone. He helped me figure some shit out."

Alex nodded as if he could understand what she meant. Falcone was a wise man, a father himself, and that was a kind of bond that Sylvia and Falcone could share.

"Is that why you don't seem too bothered with Falcone probably wanting to put a hit out on your brother?" Alex asked carefully. "Because you know what's like to lose…you know…"

"I _care_ that my brother is in danger, but you're right. I got my chance to avenge the death of my child. Falcone deserves the same right."

"Even if it means you lose another part of your family?"

"Even if it means I lose my brother. Yes."

"Wow. That's like…I don't know…" Alex rubbed his neck. "I don't know if that's really wrong or just really brave that you're ready to make that type of sacrifice for Don Falcone. I mean, I can see where you're coming from, but it's your _brother_."

"I know." Sylvia nodded. "But the possibility of Falcone calling off the hit is pretty slim. It's the only way I can manage to move on, knowing that if anything comes from it, at least Falcone will get the justification that I was able to get. If I couldn't kill Demetri, I don't know if I would be able to move on. At least this way, it keeps the city at peace."

"How does it do that? It's just Falcone against Jim Gordon. Not exactly a city-wide war."

"It's a chain reaction."

"What do you mean?"

"As it starts. If Falcone gets angry enough, he has enough loyalists attached to him—the ones that haven't revealed themselves. He has enough, he could probably build an army. And Jim is too stubborn to let himself be killed, and the GCPD are loyal to him. So, it'd be the Falcone army against the cops—and because the fucking Falcone loyalists would rally, Oswald would consider them to be traitors. So, then you have Falcone versus the GCPD versus Penguin…"

"…With you getting caught right in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle," Alex caught on quickly, pointing at her.

"Yep. So, now you see why allowing Falcone to go after Jim keeps the city at peace."

"Fair point. You saw that coming a mile away."

"Honestly, I wouldn't have been able to do that a few years ago," Sylvia admitted modestly.

"I thought that was weird. You never look so far in the future. You were always more, I don't know, impulsive."

"Still am."

"So, what's changed for you?"

"Not much. Except for the fact that I'm married to a pragmatist." Sylvia said with a sly smile. "He's always four steps ahead of everyone else, including me. It'd be stupid if I didn't learn to pick up on a few things for myself."

"I hate the guy," Alex stated coolly. "But I guess…I guess he really is better for you than I ever was."

"Agreed, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Out of curiosity…"

"Hm?"

"Penguin's parents…"

"Yeah?"

"Did you get to know any of them?" Alex asked sincerely.

"I knew Gertrud for a bit." Sylvia said with a small nod. Her eyes hardened. "I loved her like she was my own mom. I only met Elijah twice."

"Well, it sounds like Penguin got close to his father. How come you only saw _him_ twice and Gertrud more?"

"Because when I met Elijah for the second time, that was the last time. After the second time, Oswald didn't want anything to do with me. But, I mean, it wasn't _his_ fault," Sylvia said quickly, glancing at Alex for a second. "It wasn't him that said it. It was Hugo Strange's influence."

"The time he was in Arkham—"

"Yeah," Sylvia returned with a quick nod, promptly cutting him off. "Look, this isn't something Oswald would like you to know so if you could do me a favor and not mention any of this, that would be great."

"Oh, yeah, no, I get it."

Sylvia smiled at him almost shyly: "Thanks."

"Have you talked to Jim about any of that or…?"

"I have. About Gertrud. I don't think he knows what to say, to be honest. He never knows what to say where it concerns Oswald or anything that has to do with that part of my life. I think he tries to pretend that it doesn't exist."

"I guess I can see why he would. Being a cop and all."

"Yeah."

They were quiet for a second. Sylvia cleared her throat and said, "About that grave robbing. If you and Bazara did it for a good cause, I don't see anything wrong with grave robbing. But if you did it for—"

"I don't rob graves!"

Sylvia held up her hand in surrender: "Alright! Sorry! I didn't know what the fuck you were into back then, so _excuse_ me."

"Bazara and I weren't partners for long. Like I said: It was only for a couple months."

"Why did you two break up?"

"Just disagreements, in general. He had a real problem with me taking the reigns for a few deals, lots of control issues."

Sylvia nodded with a cynical half-smile: "I know the type."

"Anyway, that's why we only partnered up for a couple of months."

"Was he the guy you partnered up with after leaving Gotham?" Sylvia inquired coolly, although Alex heard her stale tone sharpen to passive aggression.

"Yeah."

"Well, I can see why you left _me_ for that marvelous opportunity. A grave-robbing, two-bit criminal who's only reward for recruiting you is jail time."

"Sylvia."

"What? Too sarcastic? What I meant to say is 'Wasn't _he_ a prize'."

"You know…" Alex sighed impatiently. "For someone who tells me to get over it and forget what we had, telling me off for trying to make it up to you after all these years, you are really busting my balls over one mistake."

"You left me in Gotham while _you_ claimed to go after something better. After all this time, I find out that the _reason_ you left is because Bazara offered you some golden opportunities? I'd be more forgiving if it meant joining someone credibly infamous like Carmine Falcone. Come to find out that it's **Bazara** who had you by the balls. It's just nice to know—"

"—Sylvia, watch the road!"

She turned the wheel hard to get back into their lane, avoiding the semi-truck that thundered, its horn honking angrily in its passing.

"—Where I stand!"

Alex shook his head, rolling his eyes up to the sky: "Penguin is a bit of a fucking loser to me in my opinion, but, goddamn, he was right."

Sylvia glared at him initially for calling her husband a 'loser', but her gaze softened when she heard his admission of error.

"What do you mean 'he was right'? Right about what?"

"You. _Us_." Alex explained unhappily.

"What?"

He sighed, "It's what he said to me. That night you and I stopped Tetch. You'd walked away and everything, and Penguin and I _kinda_ got into it."

"You argued?"

"Yeah, he was…Well, I guess _I_ did more of the arguing."

The car stopped at the first stop light in the past hour. Sylvia turned her head to look at him, smiling, however, to hear how he admitted to antagonizing Oswald for the first time since they'd met.

"What did you two argue about, dare I ask?"

"We argued about you."

"I figured as much," Sylvia muttered, watching the red light.

"Well, back then I thought that there might've been a chance between us. You know, to go back to the way things were before they ended badly."

"Despite the fact that I'm married—"

"Hey, I'm not a good enough guy to say I've never been, like, a homewrecker before," Alex said quickly although he crossed his arms over his chest as if to deflect whatever judgement might come about his confession to breaking up past marriages. "So, I thought there was a chance. I tried telling Penguin that, thinking he would just walk away with his tail between his legs, that type of deal. Turns out…Well, your little guy has teeth and he made some _biting_ comments, but they were good points."

"Yeah, he cuts pretty deep when he's angry," Sylvia commented, nodding her head.

"No kidding. Anyway, he told me that I didn't know anything about you, and I underestimated how long you can hold a grudge. He said it'd take months for me to get on your good side. I thought he was just talking big, you know, but it turns out that he was right. You still hold what I did against me, even after everything I've done to try and convince you that I've changed."

She felt a small pang of pity for him, hearing how honest he was being. But there was also an inner glow of pride she felt, hearing how Oswald had come to her defense, and knew her well enough to understand the strength of her less attractive traits as well as he did of her better ones.

"Saving me from Isabella's crazed psycho killer persona was a good start," Sylvia offered lightly, smiling when Alex glanced at her hopefully. "You also got rid of Jill and her boyfriend's influence before they could do anything to me, which was nice."

"So, what you're saying is…?"

She hesitated before she acknowledged softly, "Perhaps I _have_ been a little too harsh."

"Meaning?"

"I was 21. You were 23. You knew what you wanted. I knew what _I_ wanted. Perhaps I was being too selfish, thinking that I was supposed to be the _only_ thing you should have wanted."

Alex nodded thoughtfully: "Maybe…But you know, I think we both did the relationship dirty. I mean, I left Gotham and never told you when or if I'd ever be back. I wouldn't say that was a noble thing to do; that was more like—"

"An asshole move."

"Right! Er…yeah, right."

"Out of curiosity," Sylvia offered goodheartedly, "Other than your questionable partnership with Bazara, did you happen to have, you know, any other people come into your life?"

Alex smirked: "Do you mean to ask if I ever had any other girls besides you?"

"Nooo! No, no. I mean, if you do not want to talk about that, I'm _fine_ with it. But if you did, I wouldn't object to it. We have a _long_ trip ahead of us—"

"—And you wanna fill that time by talking about my sexual past? Aren't you married?"

"No! I mean, I am, but I wouldn't want to talk about it…Not unless you did. But fine. Don't talk about it."

Alex and Sylvia glanced at each other with a small pause before they burst out laughing.

"Well, I did date this chick for a few months, but it wasn't serious."

"Mainlander?"

"Obviously."

"Criminal?"

"No," Alex said, shaking his head with an emphasis. "She never even ditched high school. Straight shooter. But I liked her enough, and we had some type of relationship where we were friends. I think I loved her."

"You _think_?" Sylvia asked interestedly. "What do you mean 'you think'?"

"I didn't know if I did. After you, I found myself comparing every single friendship or relationship I was in with what we had. That's stupid, right?"

"Not really. I did the same thing with every relationship I had after you."

"Am I, like, 'Number One' on your list of Top 5 failed relationships…?"

There was a break of silence as Sylvia held up a finger to pause their conversation as she waited for a train to pass before crossing the railroad tracks, and then a few more minutes during which the car stuttered to sit in the line of traffic waiting for the bridges connecting to the mainland to lower.

Sylvia shifted comfortably in her seat, relaxing her left arm outside of the window, then she turned her attention to him seriously.

"You're Number Three."

"Really? After what I did?"

"You had me fall in love with you, then you left me for some half-pipe dream to be a big shot criminal when, really, Gotham is where you could've had it all. You didn't know that I would accept your lifestyle, only because you only saw what you wanted to see, so that you could pursue your dreams without any burdens. It's understandable. And maybe I took it too personally. But that's the only thing you're guilty of—that, and vexing Oswald just because _he_ has something _you_ want now."

Alex smiled guiltily.

"Compared to what you did," Sylvia said gravely, "the other two guys I had been with did _so_ much worse."

Alex nibbled on the inside of his cheek before he asked carefully, "What _did_ they do?"

"It's not what they did. It's what they _didn't_ do."

It sounded as though she might continue but the bridges had lowered and the traffic that had been accumulating behind its toll booths were becoming increasingly aggressive, so she put that morbid conversation in abeyance.

Alex wanted to know what she was going to tell him. Back then, her type were muscular, beefy men, who could take down a rabid dog or a boisterous bull with the very strength of their hands. She liked them dumber than herself so she could prance around, act better than them while Alex himself did the part of being her trophy boyfriend. He could barely comprehend why Sylvia had been drawn to Penguin with his shorter stature, his proper mannerisms—when she liked her guys (at least back then) to be complete (for lack of a better word) 'assholes'.

Sylvia had always been playful, flirtatious, and sassy, but between the past and present, he detected her edgy, guarded persona. What _had_ her boyfriends done to her in the past to reach the top of her list of damaged relationships, even for Penguin to say that Alex's actions against Sylvia were less atrocious when compared to the others?

They'd cross the bridge and reached the Mainland. For some reason, the feeling of being on the Mainland with her was unnatural, knowing he'd always associated Gotham City's island as Sylvia's home. This _was_ the first instance in which Sylvia ever left Gotham with someone else, and Alex felt endeared to her, knowing he'd experience the Mainland as if it was his first time leaving too. Except this time, he would be _with_ her rather than without.

"Sylvia…"

"Hmm?" She side-glanced him again.

"You know…Whatever happened in the past," Alex started with an attempt of sounding sincere. "You know you can talk to me,right?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What you said over the bridge…"

Sylvia nodded. Whether that was an affirmation that they'd cover that ground later in the day or that she understood what he meant, it remained to be seen.

Alex exhaled deeply. Did _Oswald_ have to deal with this every time he tried to approach a sensitive issue?

"I'm getting hungry," Sylvia said openly, looking at him with a smile.

"Oh, yeah, me too. Where do you wanna eat?"

"I don't know. This is my first time on the Mainland. The only other place I've gone was down South; I don't know where anything is."

"Oh, well, let me give you the tour!" Alex chuckled. He pointed out the window: "There's the bridge that we just got off, and here's the Mainland." (He gestured to the entire city.) "And…End of tour. That'll be fifty bucks."

"Fifty bucks for a point here and there? What a rip-off." Sylvia teased.

"It's really the company you're paying for: Not the sights."

"Good to know."

"Otherwise, how was it?"

"You're going to get a one-star Yelp review."

"Ouch." Alex winced playfully. "What can I do to change that review to five stars?"

"You can tell me where the best place is to get a burger." Sylvia offered helpfully.

"That, I can do! Turn left here."

* * *

Take-out seemed legitimately easier than dining in seeing as they were making great time. They'd made it to the hotel thirty minutes prior to check-in.

The car was parked in front of the hotel. With the paper reservations in hand, Sylvia popped open the trunk and amusedly watched Alex reach inside to gather both of their suitcases: one in each hand.

"You know I can carry my own luggage," Sylvia offered, holding out her hand.

"Nah. I'll do it."

"But…Why?"

"'Why?'" Alex chuckled. "Why not?"

"It's just weird."

"Does Penguin carry your suitcase?"

"Well, yeah."

"So, you're used to being treated like a lady."

"Yeah. By _him_." Sylvia returned, gesturing behind her to indicate Oswald. "You've never been one for chivalry."

"Well, I'm trying to change. I figure I can try to prove that chivalry ain't dead."

"Never said that it was," She responded with an impish grin. "It's just that compared to _some_ men I know, you lean more on the Neanderthal spectrum."

"Ouch. I'll need some aloe vera for all these burns."

"There's aloe in my bag."

"Why do you have aloe?" Alex said skeptically as they walked over the threshold of the hotel.

"It's part of my skin care routine."

"You have a skin care routine?"

"Normally moisturizer, but I recently added it after hearing Oswald talk about how great it is."

" _He_ has a skin care routine?" Alex said incredulously.

Sylvia turned to look at him and smiled pointedly, saying, "It's actually an _intense_ routine, but it works. It's why he looks so handsome and youthful."

"No comment."

"You don't agree?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't make a habit of saying whether another grown man is handsome or not," Alex responded, aloof. "So, like, is he your consultant for any other routines or…?"

Alex put the suitcases down, rubbing his elbows as he stood beside Sylvia, waiting for the three couples in front of them to move forward or out of the way once the check-in procedures had finished.

"Sometimes," Sylvia answered carelessly. "I mean, he does my hair for my performances, and he's done my makeup."

Alex's eyes widened: "He does your _makeup_?"

"Well, yeah."

"How does he know…?"

"He wears it too." Sylvia said with a gentle shrug of her right shoulder. "He can get ready in, like, five minutes—does his hair and face—and it'd look like he spent thirty minutes on it. It pisses me _off_."

Alex stared at her. She looked at him with a pique of interest, smirking when he still appeared disbelieving.

"Why are you so shocked?" She asked.

"It's just…You never went for guys like that, you know…"

"No, that's true. Honestly, if you asked me 10 or 13 years ago whether I'd be with Oswald, I'd probably have denied it up and down. But that is because I was attracted to self-absorbed, sexist, fascistic assholes, all of whom kept hiding shit from me and never could see the _real_ me—by the way, you're half-way included in that regard—I hope that doesn't trigger you. Now, Oswald may be a little selfish from time-to-time, but he respects women, and he's not an idiot."

"But he _can_ be an asshole…" Alex pointed out.

"Well, maybe. But he's not an asshole to _me_. Plus, he treats the wait staff peeps all right. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat the people in the service industry. Speaking of which, we're about to talk to them right now."

The other couples moved to the side either having finished checking or waiting for someone to check out. The maître D that waited on them was dressed in semi-casual clothes: neatly steamed white shirt, black tie, and freshly pressed black slacks. He gave the check-in/guest book a brief overview before he lifted his eyes to peer at her.

Sylvia smiled congenially.

"Good Evening, ma'am. How may I help you?"

"Checking in for the night," She said politely.

"Papers?"

"Here." She handed the reservations to him.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He previewed them and then scanned them into the computer. After a few beeps and boops, he gave them back and turned the guest book, handing her a pen to sign it.

"The room has two beds, correct?" Sylvia asked.

"Of course. Unless you'd like a room with one bed?" said the maître D politely, glancing over Sylvia's shoulder to peer at Alex, who grinned handsomely at him.

"No thanks."

"Of course, of course. However, for a hundred dollars extra, you will be able to acquire room service—first meal is free—as well as all the amenities of the higher paying rooms to include free internet, and an all-day pass for the Spa-A-Day deluxe package; that's included."

Alex stepped forward and said quickly, "Is that 'spa' like a jacuzzi soak or…?"

"Jacuzzi, yes. It fits four people. Also, if you go up to the penthouse floor, there's a fully stocked bar: per the deluxe package, drinks are on the House."

"Sylvia, can I..." Alex took her arm and pulled her to the side.

"What is it?" Sylvia questioned.

"Shot in the dark: Do you want to…?" He thumbed the ceiling twice to indicate a preemptive upgrade. "Jacuzzi, room service, alcohol—it's like a vacation over here."

"I'm not here for a vacation. I'm here to—"

"—Find Bazara and interrogate, I _got_ it. But that's tomorrow."

"Right. _Tomorrow_. Less than twenty-four hours away."

"So, for the next twelve of those hours we could be taking a well-deserved vacation from the grind."

Sylvia gave him a look.

"What?" Alex said innocently. "It's a jacuzzi!"

"So?"

"So? Look…Hear me out! You're telling me you would rather spend the night in a boring room with _no_ television, _no_ internet instead of upgrading to a _bigger_ room where we can have fun ordering room service, watch some stupid movies, get in a _jacuzzi_ —"

"You're forgetting the caveat: The room has _one_ bed."

"So?"

"So, I'm _married._ And not to **you** , might I remind you."

"I'm not going to try anything."

"I don't know that! Besides, it's the principle! On _principle,_ I am not going to get drunk and then share a _bed_ with a man that _isn't_ my husband."

"I'll sleep on the floor!"

"You're not sleeping on the floor like a dog. That's ridiculous."

"So, we'll just sleep, like, heel-toe."

"What?"

Alex gestured to his feet: "I'll sleep this way, and you'll sleep the other way. My feet at your head; your head at my feet. That way our stuff ain't facing each other."

"You know you don't have to be _facing_ one another to fuck, right? Your mama gave you the talk about the birds and bees, surely."

"I respect your shit enough not to dig you out when you're sleeping. Come on…"

"Interesting way to word that," Sylvia said, pushing him away from her gently.

"You've phrased it that way before. Where do you think I got it from?"

"I'm just saying—"

"Liv, baby, it's only for _one_ night."

Sylvia sighed: "This is not a good idea."

"If you want, we could take turns in the jacuzzi. I bet it's got jets that can _really_ get the job done."

"Ugh!"

"You can think of your hubby while you're getting vibrated by the all-day spa pass. I'm sure that'll be worth the extra hundo."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you _really_ want that fucking jacuzzi, don't you?"

" _Yes_!"

"Good god."

"We'll figure out the one-bed situation later, Sylvia. Come onnnn."

"Fine! Fine." She shooed him away. "Just stop pestering me."

"Yay!"

"Goddamn man-child." Sylvia approached the maître D and gave him two fifty-dollar bills.

He thanked her before placing them in the inside of his jacket pocket. Politely, he asked for them to follow as he strode towards the elevator.

When he brought them to the room, he simply gave them each a bracelet: a white band with the word 'Spa-A-Day' etched into the elastic. Afterwards, he placed two menus at the foot of the bed, smiling.

"Call this number," He said, gesturing to the back of the menu. "This is the Chef's _personal_ line. When he answers, tell him your name, your room number, and the menu options are listed as you see here. In ten minutes, exactly, they will deliver your meals promptly on a silver cart, which will be maneuvered by a Hispanic gentleman by the name of Benito. He will be your room service attendant. Do you have any questions for me?"

"None yet, bro." Alex guffawed; he took a long leap before he fell face-first in the king-sized bed.

"No questions," Sylvia assured with a small smile. "Thank you so much."

"You are very welcome." The maître D bowed respectfully before leaving the room, shutting the door on his way out.

Looking around the large room with a built-in bathroom as well as the balcony outside the glass doors, Sylvia's stomach tightened. She hadn't so much as done anything with Alex, let alone thought of it. So why did she feel like she had?

Sylvia bit her lip nervously, glancing behind her at the door then to Alex, who was laughing to himself as he tried to do a 'snow angel' on the comforter.

"What a mess," She muttered.


	75. The Jacuzzi

Chapter Seventy-Five: The Jacuzzi

* * *

The jacuzzi on the penthouse floor was bigger than what either Alex or Sylvia had predicted. The maître D mentioned that it could fit four people; these four individuals would've had to be made of spectacularly wide proportions for that to happen. Ten average-sized individuals could fit in this large aquatic tank. The five jets on either side of this four-corner hot tub 'jetted' water out so ferociously, the sound of water rushing to the surface was a garbled, but pleasant noise. Around the jacuzzi were an odd number of visitors that came from only god-knows-where; men and women dressed down to bikinis or trunks (or nudity, in the case of a few exhibitionist couples).

The miscalculation of actually encountering a jacuzzi hadn't been taken under advisement when Sylvia had packed for this unprecedented vacation; that having been said, she strolled around the penthouse forum, wearing black, thigh-high shorts, matching flip-flops, and a maroon holster-top. She gave the other bypassing guests a quick once-over, knowing how much she stood out, and hoping against hope that none of these spectators were looking to shoot her.

Her paranoia of being hunted down for whatever she and Oswald might have done to these unsuspecting spectators was only one of the few reasons she made her rounds while Alex, who seemed to have no cares what so ever in the world, simply opted to take part in the jacuzzi experience. Unlike her, he'd packed his trunks as a sort of 'just in case' factor, so it seemed to work out for him.

Sylvia glanced at him nonchalantly, inwardly rolling her eyes when he threw off his white robe (which had been offered as part of the Spa-A-Day deluxe package as if it was a free bar of soap or a travel-sized shampoo), and seamlessly hopped right in. Sylvia had long ago reminded herself that _nothing_ was going to happen with Alex, but she wasn't too proud to admit that her face heated up, seeing her first beau half-naked in a hot tub, relaxed with his arms outstretched on either side of him.

Platinum blonde roots dampened by the steam and the occasional geyser shots from the bottom of the hot tub that would make Old Faithful just a little insecure of its legacy. Alex wasn't strong or as big as he thought he was, but those muscles along his arms and bare chest flexing as he shifted his position in the tub could tell no lies. Neither could the small little smirk that appeared at the corner of his mouth when he noticed Sylvia watching him.

She'd quickly looked away.

Sylvia was irrevocably still attracted and devoted to Oswald. So _why_ did she find herself peeking at her ex-boyfriend. Was it just to see if he'd changed at least physically since they'd been so physiologically exposed like this? What is just a natural curiosity to revisit what—

 _No. No. No. We're not about to go down this trap of infidelity._

The waiters, dressed similarly like her, walked around in all-white T-shirts and shorts. They made their rounds with offerings of snacks and alcoholic beverages to any one of the guests whether they were soaking in a hot tub or standing around, talking amongst themselves. One approached her with a glass of champagne on a silver-plated platter.

"Care to have one?" He asked lightly.

Sylvia looked at it briefly. What was one glass?

"Sure. Thank you very much." She took it gracefully and the waiter smiled before walking away.

This penthouse suite could give one the feeling of being lost on an island with Calypso and her ever-growing number of slaves who'd fallen for her. It was like a fantasy, a world hidden from the harsh reality of burdens and responsibilities. Sylvia took a sip of her champagne and walked towards the jacuzzi.

Its one and only occupant peered at her.

"Enjoying yourself?" Sylvia asked coolly.

Alex smirked at her: "More than I care to admit." He flicked the water and held out the same hand towards her. "Care to join?"

"I'd rather not."

"Because you didn't bring a bathing suit?"

"That's not it."

"So, what, are you afraid of getting too wet?"

"Don't be ridiculous. There's no such thing as being 'too wet'."

Alex quirked an eyebrow at her saucy joke, but she seemed to take him up on his childish challenge for she placed her glass down beside her feet before taking off her flip-flops and sidled right in, although she kept a half-arm's length of distance between them for obvious reasons.

She peered down to see he was wearing hot pink trunks, and he sat with his legs parted as he became fully ensconced in the treatment of the vibrating jets on the sides and the floor of the jacuzzi; he grinned again when he caught her looking.

Sylvia felt the vibration of the jets massaging her backside, and the geyser-like jets that were located along the floor on which she and Alex sat; it was like a full-body massage, and it was, admittedly, relaxing.

"Now, isn't this better than spending the night without any of this awesome treatment?" Alex asked knowingly, gesturing to the penthouse in general.

"Sure."

"And the people here are pretty cool, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"So, it's a great time, right?"

"Aside from listening to the incessant drunk chatterboxes around us. Sure."

"Stop acting like you're not enjoying yourself."

Sylvia glanced at him, startled by his observation: "Excuse me?"

"You're trying not to have fun." He pointed at her. "I can tell you're enjoying yourself. You _can_ have fun without Penguin here, you know. It's not like he has to tell you when to enjoy yourself, right?"

"Of course, he doesn't tell me _when_ I can have fun."

"Good."

"No one gets to tell me when."

"…Good."

"Including you." Sylvia reminded, taking her glass of champagne back into her possession. "So, if I want to act like I'm not having fun, I think it's my prerogative do that."

Alex cocked his head to the side: "I didn't mean to tell you that you're not allowed to _not_ want to have fun."

"Good. Because you wouldn't be able to."

"Okay. I'm fine with that."

"Good. Just saying."

"Okay."

" _Good_."

Alex stared at her. He cleared his throat a little and leaned forward: "Did I say something wrong?"

"What are you talking about?"

He gestured to her overall presence: "You just got prickly, all of a sudden."

Sylvia shrugged her shoulders but didn't say anything. She simply drank the rest of her champagne and placed the glass on the edge of the hot tub; after, she crossed her arms over her chest. Guarded.

Alex noticed and he turned towards her completely.

"I made you mad, didn't I? What'd I say?"

She gave him a look and said indignantly, "You know, we _can_ have a conversation **without** you needlessly bringing Oswald into it. You _do_ know that, right?"

"All I meant is that you just seem more guarded against me than normal, like he told you not to have fun—it's a hotel with a jacuzzi, and we haven't even eaten that free meal or watched anything on Pay-Per-View yet, and you're just being really fucking prickly."

"Stop telling me I'm prickly!"

"What do you call that?" He pointed at her again. "You're like a sea urchin, right now. Did he tell you that you couldn't have fun around me?"

"No. I never even mentioned that you would be with me."

Alex blinked. He shifted uncomfortably and put more distance between them as if he'd reached a revelation.

"What do you mean? Like, he doesn't know that we're hunting down Bazara together? Or that I was the one who knew where he'd be?"

"He thinks I'm finding him alone, Alex. I never mentioned you. At all."

"Why?"

"Because it's…" She gesticulated with difficulty, and she eventually allowed her hands to plop themselves in her lap (splashing water too). "It's complicated."

Alex rubbed the back of his neck and said casually, "Did you not _want_ to go on this trip with me?"

"It's just business. I'd have gone alone, but you know where Bazara is."

"So, you're basically chasing a lead, and I'm your resource."

"In a way, yes."

"So, you're using me."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side before she said coolly, "If you want to look at it like that, sure."

Alex chuckled cynically, "Brutal honesty: You're the real expert in that, you know."

"I always have been."

"Yep, that's true. So, the whole not telling Penguin you're going with me on the road might've been smart. I guess Penguin wouldn't like knowing that you were going on a two-day trip with me, huh? Might cause some issues, I guess."

"It definitely would."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

She opened her mouth to tell him, but she sighed instead, "It's nothing. The mission right now is to find Bazara, get him to talk, and after…"

"Is that part of the 'we have to talk' situation, the talk we would have after we find Bazara?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Is it the one where you tell me Penguin's tired of me being around you and he wants me out of the picture?"

Sylvia paused and she frowned: "That, exactly."

"Funny. I didn't think you were the type to let a man tell you who you could or couldn't be around." Alex sniffed. "Or be controlled by anyone, for that matter."

Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek uneasily, her eyebrows furrowed at him. She gave him a second glance, obviously vexed by his comment. Alex expected a torrent of rage, but she simply lifted herself out of the hot tub, took a towel proffered by one of the waiters, and left the penthouse suite. Alex watched after her, flicking the water with his hand. Suddenly, he wasn't enjoying himself as much.


	76. Why Sylvia Loves Oswald

Chapter Seventy-Six: Why Sylvia Loves Oswald

A/N: SilverIce523: Thanks again for your reviews! I love those notifications :P

* * *

When Alex came back to the room, he was wearing his white robe again, and ironically matched Sylvia, who wore her own. She sat in the king-sized bed, wearing a baby-blue tank top and matching pajama shorts, a phone in her hand. Judging from the constant, steady sounds of ticking, she was texting. When Alex closed the door to announce his presence, she barely even looked up at him.

"Sylvia…" He began, but he was cut off when she held up her index finger; after what might have been five seconds, she continued texting someone, ignoring him: a silent order for him to be quiet.

Five guesses as to whom she was texting: Was it her close friend (with benefits, evidently), Edward Nygma; her valiant, shielding brother, Detective James Gordon; her overprotective—and at times, in Alex's eyes, clearly possessive husband—Oswald Cobblepot? Was it the professional hitman-turned-Work-Husband, Victor Zsasz? Or someone Alex didn't even know? He inwardly scoffed at any of those options as Sylvia didn't once look at him, even as he prowled around the room, taking the hotel's offering of sweet chocolates off the island in the kitchenette.

Alex sighed exasperatedly.

He couldn't help but wonder if the Penguin had to contend with this temper of hers in such a manner: This obvious stone-cold, silent treatment was unbearable. How to make it up to her, though?

What did the Gangland Kingpin do when he rubbed Sylvia Gordon the wrong way? Did he have the luxury to pepper her with soft, apologetic kisses, hoping to ease his emotional trespass with romantic fealty? Did he use his connections and finances to shower her in riches and splendor? Or did he wait for Hurricane Sylvia to subside before salvaging and rebuilding their relationship once the storm had passed with a conversation that included confessions of wrongdoing.

Surely Penguin had said things he didn't mean—or Jim Gordon, for that matter. Did she torture them with the same silent treatment that he now received?

Her prickly attitude had evolved to cold undertones, evidently. Alex preferred the porcupine over this any day.

Ten minutes later, she was still ticking away on her phone. Her hardened expression didn't change as if she were purposely keeping her face unreadable, like she was punishing Alex for what he'd said to her earlier. Leave it to her to use her own emotional intelligence against him.

"Sylvia…" He tried again.

She looked up at him with a sallow glare.

Some serendipity, her eyes meeting his, at least!

"What?" She muttered, before she turned her eyes back down to the phone. She smiled briefly when it made a small _ting_ and her fingers texted away.

"I didn't mean what I said." He walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge. (She ignored him for a minute or two, continuing to text.) "I don't think you'd let any guy—or woman—tell you who to be around or allow them to let you do _anything_. I get it. You're your own woman; it's a feminist thing."

Sylvia lifted her gaze to him for a second before she texted her last message, placing the phone to the side after she'd hit 'send'.

"If you didn't mean it," She said lowly. "Why did you say it?"

"Because you…" He waved his hand at her uncertainly, but he sighed, lowering his head. "You do _everything_ Penguin says. I know you say the papers lie, but that's just what you, the Mayor's Wife, has to say. I know Penguin gives you orders to go after people, to kill people, to get rid of them when they're annoying him and everything in between. You do _everything_ he tells you to do, _including_ the things you don't want to do."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You killed Isabella."

"She tried to kill _me_ first," Sylvia snapped. "And you helped me do it, by the way! So, you can't talk—"

"I meant that he told you to get rid of her and you did. There's no telling what that bitch would've done, but you—ultimately—told her to leave because Penguin told you to. Because that's what he wanted."

"I told her to leave because she was using Ed."

"That made it easier to obey the order, I bet, but you still did what he told you to do."

"Because he's my boss."

"He's your husband; if you want to tell him to fuck off, that'd be _your_ 'prerogative', and I'm sure you would do that."

"You're right. And I have. What the fuck is your point?"

"Do _you_ want to get rid of me?" Alex asked strongly, looking at her with the same expression.

"I mean…" She began. "Oswald is—"

"No disrespect, Sylvia, but _fuck_ Penguin. I mean, I get it." (He tried to deflect the sudden glower she sent him.) "You love him, all that. There's _clearly_ nothing you wouldn't do for him, but you don't do enough for yourself. You're literally at his beck-and-call _all_ the time."

"Because I work for him—"

"—Only when you _want_ to work for him."

"He just means a lot to me, Alex—"

"You live for him, you love him more than you have ever loved anyone, **including** yourself. Everyone can see that. _I_ can see that now. Doesn't that make things weird?" Alex questioned, gesturing to her. "You say you don't let any man control you, but _he_ does. And you let him."

"I can't help it."

"Why can't you? You clearly don't want to get rid of me. You like having me around. So, fuck what he says. Fuck what he wants. You don't have to get rid of me just because your husband tells you to. So why are you doing what he says—"

"Because it's—It's just complicated, okay?"

"It sounds really fucking simple," Alex argued, standing. "Why do you let him control you?"

"It's—"

"—Why do you let him tell you what to do—"

"—I—"

"—Why do you even _do_ what he wants when you don't want—"

"—It's _complicated_ —"

"JUST TELL ME WHY!"

Sylvia stood up and said furiously, "BECAUSE IT'S FREEING, Alex! And it's _easier_! Okay! That's the fucking reason!"

Alex stared at her: "What?"

She took a breath and she gesticulated behind her passionately as she said, "I have been running my club these past few years, have been butting heads with Anderson and all the other Families, and have been running Gotham alongside Oswald—at one point, by myself—when I _never,_ **never** wanted to be in charge of _anything!_ I am so tired of being _that individual_ people turn to for directions, for answers, for help that it's just really fucking nice to have someone _else_ do the leading! When Oswald is in charge, things are easier. I can _breathe_ for fuck's sake. I can be _me_ again."

"You are you!" Alex said incredulously. "You've always been you!"

"Not since I had to take on Ed's duties, or be a Mayor's wife, or—"

"—It's better than being someone no one remembers—"

"It really isn't!"

Alex was stumped.

"Yeah!" Sylvia said harshly. "Hard to believe, right?"

"I—"

"My life was simpler when I was working under Fish Mooney—when Falcone was still in charge. People didn't know me. People didn't _want_ to know me. I _liked_ it that way!" Sylvia said angrily. "Everyone wants to control Gotham, and some people like Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan are envious of me, and I get it! But no one knows how _hard_ it is to be the one who picks up the pieces for the people in my life, who has to be strong all the time because there's no one else to lead. I enjoy it, okay, _sometimes_ —with the singing and dancing, feeling like a princess and a boss and a star because I felt like nothing all my life—but I miss the days when it was just Oswald and me at my old apartment, bitching about how Falcone and Maroni were stupid and we didn't have to worry about anyone else but ourselves! Oswald doesn't control me—he knows he never will—but there's a certain type of freedom in the way he does!"

"He's trying to change you though—you see that?" Alex challenged. "Trying to get your old friends—me—away from you. That's controlling!"

"He's not trying to change me! He loves me for _me_! He's the only one who ever has, and that _includes_ you."

"I loved you without condition!"

"You loved me? You _left_ me. You hid your entire past from me! You hid _everything_ from me because you couldn't see me for _me_. You lied to me all the time— **Oswald** doesn't lie to me! And because of that, I trust him completely." She gestured violently away from her, referencing her husband as she pointed in the direction. "He didn't hide his true colors, who he _really_ is. In fact, he showed me that his darkness is just like mine, and he didn't try to hide it! And when he didn't, that was refreshing! And for once in my life—with all the crap that I got from my dad, my brother, from people like you telling me that I'm 'innocent' and making me feel like I was supposed to be someone I'm not—I had someone who _understood_ me."

"Sylvia—"

"You want to know what my exes did to me that made my Top Five Failed Relationships? Wanna know what they _didn't_ do that was so awful?"

Alex was quiet and he stayed that way.

Sylvia shook her head, smiling sadly but the anger was still very much alive in her eyes: "They didn't make me feel safe. I was walking on egg shells; I had to feel like I had to be the one in charge, the one with a plan all the time. I couldn't feel free; the world was _always_ dangling over my shoulders, but never beneath my feet, not even once. They didn't make me feel like _me_. I felt like I had to hide everything about myself _all_ the time, to the point where I felt my soul slowly grind away to nothing, feeling like I might disappear! Do you have any idea how _scary_ that is? How terrifying it is to feel alone in a city _full_ of this many people?"

Alex crossed his arms over his chest, feeling embarrassed for his words. Sylvia rubbed her cheek quickly, hoping he couldn't see that she'd started crying.

"I thought…" She started but her voice caught unexpectedly.

"Sylvia, you don't have to…"

She put her hands on her hips, and she looked up at the ceiling exhaustedly. Slowly gaining her composure before she spoke again.

"Oswald…" She said softly. "He was the first person to ever see me for what and who I truly was and am, and I had never felt more accepted, or more at peace with myself. For that, I feel like I owe him everything and anything he could possibly ask of me. Trust and friendship have been so ridiculously hard to find in Gotham; true love seemed intangible, until I met Oswald."

Alex nodded. He sat down on the edge of the bed and played subconsciously with the comforter. He was quiet for a moment.

"He's lucky to have someone who's so clearly devoted to him," He admitted, looking at her sincerely. "And you're lucky to have someone who's obviously devoted to you. I didn't see it before, but…I think I do."

"I don't expect you—or anyone else—to ever understand what we have," Sylvia said with a soft laugh. "It's almost other-worldly."

"It really is."

"But it's real."

"It sounds like it. I'm sorry I upset you."

"Honestly, I think I did it to myself."

"No. You got a lot of stuff on your mind and I was just concerned about the room and finding my old partner. I guess I wasn't looking at all of the things you had to bear, so…you know…I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Sylvia said gently. "That means a lot."

Alex looked up at her from the comforter: "That said…Do you still want to get rid of me? Once we find and talk to my old partner, what's next?"

Sylvia clasped her hands in front of her, smiling at him.

"We'll figure something out. Honestly, I think you're a good friend—when you wanna be. When all this is done, we'll talk to Oswald."

Alex blinked at her, saying incredulously, "'We'?"

"Yeah." She sat down beside him. "Oswald loves me a lot. Sometimes, he tends to give into what I really want. And I really like having you as my friend. And you're not too bad of a subordinate either."

He grinned: "So, we'll talk to him…Together?"

"Yes. Purely as friends. Nothing more. Is that something you can live with?"

Alex nodded: "I can definitely live with that. But what if he still doesn't agree?"

"He'll accept it…or he won't. Either way, I like having you around."

"Good to know. But let's just say that if you happen to kiss me later, don't be so shocked if I accidentally return the favor."

"Shut up!" She giggled, pushing him. "You're such a pervert!"

"Well, so are you! With your 'wet' joke and all."

"You got me." Sylvia snickered.

"Now that the drama of all _that_ is over, do you want to watch a bad horror movie? I hear they got some of the worst 'B' movies on Pay-Per-View."

"Sure. You turn on the TV, and I'll get the menus. We can order our first _free_ meal."

"Free meal that cost a hundred dollars."

"It better taste like money," Sylvia chuckled, smirking at him. "If not, I'm going to kick you in the balls."

"Ooh, kinky. Daddy like."

She smacked him playfully over the back of the head: "Shut the fuck up and get the remote."

"When's that interview supposed to come on?"

"Interview?"

"With that Hearst, hearse-looking woman."

"Oh," Sylvia mused. "No, that's not going to happen until tomorrow evening. Oswald said it was moved preemptively—Hearst wants to schedule the thing at City Hall, but she didn't take into consideration that it was being deep-cleaned, per its usual monthly routine."

Alex exhaled while raising his eyebrows: "You'd think a woman like her would investigate something superficial like that since she's going to be digging into people's backgrounds. No wonder why Penguin ain't worried about her."

"Well, he's not worried, but I am."

"Is that why you were texting him earlier?" Alex said smoothly, glancing at her phone indicatively. "I saw you texting away when I came in."

"No," Sylvia said with similar softness. "I mean he did call me, and we talked—not about you, obviously. But when you came in, it wasn't Oswald I was texting. That was Victor Zsasz. Him and my bartender hit it off on a date."

"Your hitman is dating your bartender?"

"Victor likes Latinos," She explained sweetly.

"That's something I didn't know about Zsasz."

"Yeah," Sylvia sighed, sitting on the bed as she peered over at the menu items. "He has a thing for Alvarez down at the GCPD, but you didn't hear that from me."

Alex snickered as she flashed him a devious grin before she started reading off the menu items for dinner.


	77. Charleen's Dark Secret

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Charleen's Dark Secret

A/N: Bonding moments

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot smiled at the text message he received from Sylvia. It appeared his words to her about Margaret Hearst had done some good to rid her of the residual worry left over from when they'd discussed the scheduled live interview for tomorrow.

Per her promise, she'd called him shortly after checking into a hotel some 500 miles outside of Gotham, having finished a six-hour drive; the trip was halfway done, and Bazara's interrogation would happen first thing in the morning. That was comforting; after Ed's mysterious absence and his new habit of not returning his phone calls, Oswald was just ready for things to return to normal.

"Who're you talking to?"

Oswald rolled his eyes inwardly. Throughout his correspondence with Sylvia, he'd intermittently forgotten that he was currently entertaining a 15-year-old on the side. Per _his_ promise, he'd agreed to a second movie night with his charmingly abrasive constituent, Charleen, who plopped down on the couch cushion directly beside his.

"Who do you think?" Oswald answered.

"You know, I never fingered you for the texting type," Charleen said smoothly, smirking at him.

Her phrasing made him cringe: "I never imagined you'd be one to use the topic of 'fingering' and myself in the same sentence."

"Yeah, me neither. So, we'll both have nightmares tonight."

Oswald sighed, "I've no doubt about it."

"Does the word 'fingering' make you uncomfortable?"

"If you keep saying it, it might."

"It's, like, a normal word, though."

"Hearing it spoken from the tongue of a young lady is not exactly ideal, however." Oswald debated, looking at her briefly before he returned a text message to Sylvia, who responded almost immediately with an emoji blowing him a kiss.

"If _that_ word triggers you," Charleen said mischievously as she leaned into him, "I can't imagine what _this_ word might do to you. What about… _moist_?"

He simply looked at her with a blank expression: "Seriously?"

"What, no reaction?" She asked innocently. "I hear some people _hate_ that word. They get all fucking prickly and want me to stop saying it. But it's actually a really good word to use for a cake done well, or, like, when the water floods from an upstairs bathroom to the living room and you didn't expect the person running the bath to forget that they were, so the water just doesn't stop and it ruins the carpet on both floors so then your mom has to call some fucking floor guy to get rid of the carpet, and when they do—"

He interrupted her rant: "Is this something that happened to _you_?"

Charleen stood and she sat on the coffee table across from him. She gave him a simpering smile, as if he'd already answered the proffered inquiry.

"What gave it away?" She said smartly.

The small sound echoed from his phone and he glanced down, reading Sylvia's message where she explained that she had an early start to the next day; she was going to watch a movie and then turn in for the night. Her message ended with:

' _I'll be thinking of you tonight in every inappropriate way you can think of. Hope that titillates your brain and other things. Wink, wink. Love you!'_

Oswald smiled endearingly, before he responded back to her message:

' _Consider me titillated. Love you too.'_

He put the phone on the coffee table beside Charleen, who watched him with the expectation of an eager puppy.

"Is there a point to this story?" He asked patiently.

"What, you want me to get to the point? It's not a story if you tell the beginning and the end, but _never_ the middle."

Charleen was dressed in purple pajamas—shorts and a tank-top, obviously found from the box of clothes Sylvia never wore and stayed stored in her closet, the same of which also hid her weapons for mass destruction or at least capable of fending off an intruder. Briefly, he wondered if Charleen ever came across that type of weaponry in her years on the street.

"Fine. But after you're through, we'll have to the start the movie at some point."

Charleen smirked: "Why? Is it a long one?"

"It's three hours long, previews excluded."

"Is it a scary one?"

"Perhaps. It might give you nightmares."

"Will it keep me up all night?"

"Worse," He said playfully. "You may _never_ sleep again."

"Well, now you're fucking with me. It can't be worse than talking to you about the whole 'fingering people' or interjecting the word 'moist' in that situation." Charleen started giggling but then, after thinking harder on the topic, an expression of disgust flickered on her face. "Yep, can't be worse than that."

"It's a three-hour movie filled with people dressed from head-to-toe in costumes made from skin they've taken from their past victims, all of whom were never seen again; it's based on a true story, and it's a home invasion," Oswald summarized coolly.

Charleen raised an eyebrow at the amount of gore his description implied.

"I take it that you weren't expecting to watch this type of movie tonight?"

She modestly shrugged: "I don't know. Not really. I'm 15. I didn't think you would let me watch something so…graphic."

Her intrigued smile of obvious satisfaction was reassuring.

"Well, Sylvia mentioned you've experienced—" Oswald quickly thought of a blanket word to describe Charleen's obviously trauma-riddled past "—an _interesting_ childhood, so I presumed that other movies with elementary facets of terror would be boring to you."

"Huh. Well, you were right." She grinned widely. "Do people in the movie curse a lot?"

"Quite frequently."

"Do they try to eat each other up?"

"There's an entire act dedicated to it."

"Does the protagonist—"

"—Instead of drilling me with your seemingly endless questions about the movie, which would be answered in the next three hours of viewing it," Oswald insisted, "why don't you just put it in the DVD player and _watch_ the movie."

"Because this is more entertaining."

"It's only entertaining for the interviewer."

"So, you're not having fun?" Charleen teased with an impish grin. "You're the Penguin. You should be used to receiving this sort of interrogation by your fucking cop-in-law. Right? I'd think you and Gordon would get into it a lot."

"So, you've assumed, by only knowing my moniker, I'm accustomed to getting interrogated by a teenager?"

She gave him a look: "I meant that you're a criminal and you and Lark do criminal things and those criminal things are normally not good. You've gotten caught—like that thing with Galavan. You went to Arkham for it."

"Well, dear child, you've seen what Sylvia and I are like at, for lack of a better phrase, our barest bones. I suspected you might end up asking questions. However, where Theodore Galavan is concerned, that's the side on which you err."

"You went to Arkham for it," Charleen persisted, pointing at him. "You said you killed Galavan."

"Do not point," Oswald reprimanded, pushing her hand away firmly. "That's impolite."

"Whatever. You killed Galavan. You said you did, anyway."

"I lied."

"Sylvia's always saying you're an honest criminal," Charleen countered. "Why would you lie?"

"To cover for her."

"Why?"

"Because had she been convicted, she wouldn't have gone to Arkham. She'd have ended up in Black Gate."

"Why?"

"She's more forthright about her oppressing views against the law."

"Why?"

"She's never agreed with the justice department where right and wrong are deemed black and white, _especially_ where Gotham is concerned."

"How does she deal with her brother being a cop?"

"Very carefully."

"Why?"

Oswald sighed with an annoyance. He sent her a tempered glare; Charleen wasn't an idiot. She knew she was getting under his skin.

As a point, she stood from the coffee table and, once more, sat down directly beside him so he had extraordinarily little room left on the couch for himself, squishing him against the arm.

She brought her face intimately close to his, smirking at him, testing his boundaries.

Honestly, Oswald didn't care to be this close to another woman, let alone a teenager, _let alone_ Charleen. Luckily, seeing his discomfort, she moved and she stood up, looking at him as if she wanted to ask more questions out of a personal curiosity rather than the tendency to antagonize, which had been her previous motivation.

"Have you ever been to Black Gate?" asked Charleen, thumbing the side of her jaw thoughtfully.

"No. Why are you asking?"

He asked the question more patiently now, just grateful that she had moved to a relatively more acceptable distance away from him.

There was a subtleness to the way Charleen had gathered his discomfort, as if seeing him truly made uncomfortable by her close proximity had answered yet another question she might have offered—whatever her findings, it seemed to make her more amiable.

"Just curious," She said lightly. "Do you think all bad people go there?"

"I think people who have gone to prison were tried in court," Oswald answered carefully, "and were judged to be guilty by a jury of their peers."

"Do you think all of them are guilty though?"

"I'm sure some of the people who've been convicted would be innocent. The statistics of every convicted criminal being an actual criminal 100% of the time would be ideal to lawyers, but it's just not realistic."

"What about…" Charleen began uncertainly, and she fiddled with a piece of her hair before turning her eyes to him. "What about people who aren't the best parents…? What about people who are, like, good people, but they're kinda bad parents, like…like _shitty_ parents, even?"

Was she referring to her own parents or did she imply that he and Sylvia hadn't been the most responsible parents to their newborn daughter? Oswald wondered this briefly, feeling a certain indignant anger course through every vein of his body.

Charleen sat down on the couch again, looking at him.

"Shitty parents who were, like, _okay_ parents but maybe they coulda been better?"

Oswald attempted sincerity. After all, he didn't how much she knew about the incident. What had Sylvia told her about the tragedy in their past?

"What are you talking about, Charleen?"

She looked behind her quickly, as if searching the room for other individuals who were not herself or Oswald Cobblepot. She brought one of her hands to her face, gingerly biting a nail. A nervous tic.

"Have you ever done something bad, but told yourself it was just one bad thing and you'd do other things to make up for that, but the bad thing just kind of follows you," Charleen said quietly, "and after a while, you get so tired of feeling bad about this bad thing and you just kind of…own it…after a while?"

Oswald stared at her. So, this wasn't about Csilla. This was about _her_.

"Yeah," He said softly, nodding his head. "I've done something like that."

He noticed she looked almost relieved by his confession, even if it was the vaguest.

"What was the worst thing you've ever done?" She murmured.

"That's a little more personal than I care to divulge."

"Okay, but…" She rolled her shoulders back with an attempt of trying to relax, but all it did was make her more tense. "You and Sylvia…you guys do bad things a lot. You're criminals. You guys know what it takes to do a bad thing and be 'okay' with it later. I've done some bad things, and I…"

"What's wrong?" He asked, noticing how she nearly started shaking.

Charleen bit her bottom lip.

Whatever their past interactions, the expression she sent him was one that he'd only seen from two other people: Edward Nygma, and Sylvia Gordon, and when they were at their most vulnerable.

Before Sylvia admitted she'd seen Demetri's red flags but had overlooked them due to her need to be compassionate and forgiving, and Edward Nygma's admission to both him and Sylvia that he had never trusted two people more in his life or had accepted him as openly as they had.

Charleen was vulnerable. Oswald seemed to be someone that she felt would understand her situation more than anything. Now that an opportunity presented itself, the conversation having found its way to this epitome of confession, Charleen looked as though she was trying to break open a shell: her own.

"What is it?" He asked sincerely.

"I've done some bad things."

"I know."

"No…This, you don't know." She reassured nervously.

"You're obviously scared to tell me," Oswald noted, gesturing to her appearance. "Why tell me now?"

"Because you're here and we're alone, and I can't sit through a three-hour movie and pretend it's all okay between us," Charleen said almost tearfully. "Like, I didn't want to say anything. I—Do you know Miles?"

Oswald recalled, "I know _of_ him. Sylvia explained to me what happened."

"Yeah, well. She didn't tell you everything."

"She didn't?"

"No. And it's because I told her not to. And she promised."

"Alright," Oswald said slowly. "So, why don't you tell me what really happened when you two went to the Flea."

Charleen looked at him like he might slap her. Suddenly, she took one of the couch pillows and shouted quickly (while her voice was muffled by aforementioned pillow), "SYLVIA AND I WERE AT THE FLEA AND SHE FOUND OUT THAT I WAS SCREWING ISAAC OUT OF HIS MONEY AND I TOLD HER MILES AND I WERE GOING TO ROB YOU GUYS, BUT THEN SHE KILLED MILES AND DROWNED HIM IN A TOILET AND TOLD ME THAT I COULD STILL COME HOME WITH YOU GUYS BECAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE ANYONE AND ISAAC MADE HER PROMISE TO TAKE CARE OF ME AND THAT'S WHY I'M HERE NOW!"

After, she gently removed the pillow from her face. When she did, tears ran down her cheeks; her bottom lip quivered.

Oswald stared at her. At first, obviously, he felt rage for her betrayal, but seeing how upset she clearly was about all of it, he sighed deeply, a way to calm himself.

"Did you say Sylvia drowned Miles in a toilet?" He asked.

Charleen blinked at him, and stammered, "Y-yeah, yeah, he did, I mean _she_ did, but it's not her fault; he called me a whore, basically, and she got pissed off, but—"

Oswald held up his hand and she flinched away, nearly careening herself off the couch and onto the floor at the threat of being hit. He'd only intended to silence her, so naturally, he was a bit taken aback by her response, lowering his hand slowly down to the cushion.

"I'm sorry I did all of that, I'm sorry," Charleen cried. "I just wanted—I didn't—Please don't kill me. I know you kill people who fuck with you and everything, but I _swear_ —"

"…Shhh, shhhh…"

She tried quieting her sobs, looking at him from the floor as if he might transform into a fire-breathing dragon at any moment.

Honestly, Oswald had never been far from angry at this point. He looked at her empathetically, seeing her fear of him as not being a fear _of_ him but of whatever he'd been capable of in the past.

"Get off the floor." Oswald said gently. "Sit down." He patted the cushion beside him.

Shakily, Charleen did as she was told but she held the couch pillow against her as if it was a knight's shield.

"Did seeing Sylvia angry frighten you?"

Charleen nodded vigorously: "When she gets pissed, she gets a little crazy."

"Sylvia has a temper. Like her brother. I think it's worse. You've seen firsthand what Sylvia is capable of if someone tries to oppress anyone she cares about: Miles' demise is a good example of what happens."

"She's murderous."

"An understatement," Oswald agreed. "She's a tornado created from fire and brimstone. Once she's angry, there's not a lot that can or will stand in her path. But when she loves, she loves hard. When she feels anything, she feels it passionately: happiness, sadness, fear, love…rage. The fact that she drowned Miles and didn't harm you means a lot. And hearing what you two were involved in and why, I can see why she did it."

"So, is that why you're not angry at _her_?" asked Charleen nervously.

Oswald said with a tinge of irritation, "Admittedly, I'm a little irked that she didn't tell me everything, but I can certainly see why she didn't."

"And you just _accept_ it that easily? She's that predictable to you?"

"I just know how she is, and how she can be."

"So, then, if you're not angry with her…Are you angry with _me_?"

"Normally, I would be."

"But you're not?"

"Whatever punishment Sylvia administered for your act of betrayal was punishment enough," Oswald reassured with a soft laugh.

"Yeah, she can be pretty scary. And so honest...like brutally honest, it fucking hurts."

"No kidding."

"Can I tell you something else?"

Oswald sat back against the couch, his arm lying lazily on the back of it with subtle surprise, saying, "You have _more_ secrets to tell?"

"No. It's just something I wanna get off my chest. Plus, you're the only one I think who could really understand."

"Oh?"

Charleen bit the inside of her cheek timidly before she spoke: "Sylvia told you about me and my parents, right?"

"She mentioned it upon your arrival—Details not forthcoming since **you** didn't provide any. She had to make her own assumptions."

"Like the one where I might've burned my parents alive?"

"I thought that's something you don't talk about." He gestured to the door, referring to Sylvia. "She said it was your number one rule, or something to that affect."

"Yeah. But I said only _I_ talk about it. No one else can."

"So why discuss it with me?"

"Because you seem like a guy who liked his parents, and…you know…wouldn't have wanted anything bad to happen to them." Charleen murmured uncomfortably.

Oswald's lips parted with the unspoken epiphany. Charleen's one bad thing that she'd discussed earlier hadn't been her and Miles' ulterior motive to con himself and Sylvia out of their possessions. The truth behind the death of her parents was her dark secret.

He placed a consoling hand on Charleen's shoulder. She looked at him reproachfully.

"I was five." She said shakily. "I found one of my dad's cigarettes—I wanted to see why he liked them so much. I tried one, but I fell asleep. And then when I woke up, there was just smoke everywhere, fire on everything. I guess one of the neighbors saw all of it, called the cops. They came, and got me, but they couldn't get Mom and Dad in time. Cops said the fire started with the cigarette I left on the couch."

Charleen's eyes floated with tears, and she said meekly, "Cops said I did it—I became a suspect because I told them that my parents were stupid. I mean, they always left me alone, and they never told me 'good night' or anything. When that guy came by—the floor guy who came to repair our carpet" (Oswald nodded, recalling what he'd assumed to be a nonsensical rambling) "they just left me alone with him. All day."

Oswald winced at the implication. It wasn't easily stomached, and the rage he'd felt at Charleen's confession to her deceitful ploy was nowhere near as fierce as what he felt towards this disgusting crime.

At this point, Charleen was trembling with fear, shame, guilt, and she looked up at him.

"There was nothing I could do!" She sobbed, holding out her hands defensively. "I didn't know that smoking one cigarette would lead to all of _that_ —I—"

"It wasn't your fault." Oswald comforted softly. "It was an accident."

"Yeah, well…" She rubbed her face. "That's what I thought too. But as years went on, I got to thinking, 'well, maybe it was for the best' after what happened with that repair guy. But people at foster homes always got the story before I could tell my side, the parents always made me feel like shit so I figured, if people were going to make me feel like shit for what I didn't do, why not own it. Doesn't keep me from feeling a little bad about it though…"

"You've kept that a secret all this time?" Oswald asked, a little impressed by it but at the same, crushed by her tragic story.

"Yeah." She nodded.

"Why not tell Isaac Paddock?"

"He couldn't understand. And I couldn't tell him."

"Because he's deaf?"

Charleen chuckled, smiling at him despite her red face and wet cheeks. Oswald was impressed when she signed what she said to him aloud: "I know American Sign Language. I picked it up after Isaac and I started being friends. He just couldn't understand what I've been through—no one could."

"I see. Well! It is no wonder why you and Sylvia clicked."

"Yeah?"

"You two share the same type of unpleasant background. It is no wonder to me why she has a soft spot for you."

"I think she's just trying to fill the void."

"'Void'?"

Charleen nodded, and she said understandably, "Didn't you and she have a kid once?"

Oswald nodded, but he said coolly, "How do you know that?"

"You guys give off that vibe. I can see it in your eyes, sometimes. Hers, too. Ya'll lost him or her, right?" Charleen guessed.

"It wasn't—"

"Oh, no, I'm not blaming either of you! Gotham sucks ass. I mean…I'm just saying that bad things happen to bad people, but they happen to good people too."

Oswald smiled.

"That all is true. Out of curiosity: How come you didn't come to Sylvia with any of this?"

"No offense but she seems like she has some complicated issues around her **own** parents," Charleen said respectfully.

"What issues, exactly?"

"I don't get much weirdness about her mom, but I get a lot of the 'Daddy Issues' vibe from her. I imagine that's why she's always trying to make you happy, maybe even her brother, so you, guys, don't—you know—leave her like he left _her_."

"Her father didn't abandon her. He died in a car accident," Oswald corrected.

"How'd her mother die?"

He narrowed his eyes, wondering why she wanted to know. But before this kind of discussion became known to Sylvia, he decided it was best for Charleen to know now before she committed a social faux pas.

"Her mother left when she was younger, but a couple years ago, we discovered that she completed suicide. And I only tell you this strictly so it doesn't come up in a conversation you may have with Sylvia later in the future."

"Why would I bring that up?"

"I don't know. You and Sylvia share a common trait for having no filter. I figured it might be of use for you to have this information now than never."

"Fair enough. So, her mother goes away, and her dad died in a car accident when she was older. That doesn't mean he wasn't already kinda dead to her beforehand."

"He was very much alive before the accident."

"Just because he didn't abandon her physically, doesn't mean he didn't abandon her emotionally." Charleen said smartly, looking over her shoulder. "If you ask me, a dead dad is better than a _bad_ dad. I should know that better than anyone, I think."

"I can't really argue that point."

"Can anyone?" Charleen said sympathetically. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure."

"Do you still have popcorn in the kitchen?"

Oswald gesticulated behind him towards the room. Charleen stood and headed that direction, not before coming back and wrapping her arms around his neck, putting her head against his from behind the couch. It startled him, but when she didn't let go, he relaxed a little.

"Thanks for listening." She whispered.

"Anytime." He patted her hands. "Get the popcorn, and we'll start the movie."

"Sounds good!" She chirped happily.

He heard her sniffle as she walked away.

Sometimes, you had to let the beast out before it could be tamed, Sylvia had mentioned before. She'd been right. But the beast didn't always need to scream and fight; sometimes, it just needed to cry.


	78. The Birthday Boy

Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Birthday Boy

* * *

Throughout the first two hours of the movie, Oswald and Charleen had started out on opposite sides of the couch; their eyes glued to the TV screen while they reached into their separate bowls to gather handfuls of popcorn, earnestly eating it up until the slice-and-dicing began.

The movie itself was macabre in nature; the graphics were done as though they were watching a snuff film with over-the-top horrific visual, special effects which were, in a word, _remarkably_ effective. Charleen gradually ended up placing her bowl of finished popcorn on the coffee table in front of her next to Oswald's, never taking her eyes off the screen lest she miss an important plot point of which there were not many to begin with.

"Fuck, this whole thing is like torture porn or some shit," Charleen muttered, glancing sideways at Oswald. "I don't think there's any plot in this at all!"

Over the blood-curdling screams happening in the movie, the nearly tactile feeling of one's flesh being shredded by a sentient cheese grater, Charleen tried to talk to him. Annoyed by her competitive nature to be the loudest, Oswald leaned forward, grabbing the remote and lowered the volume.

"How much longer before it's over?" She asked interestedly.

He glanced at the time lapse it was currently on and compared it to the full three hours that it promised.

"One hour, ten minutes," He reported, looking at the back of the DVD cover. "Excluding the added special features, deleted scenes, all of which combined come to a total of five hours."

"Who cares about the deleted scenes?"

"Some of those scenes could be integral to the plot of the movie."

"If they were so 'integral'," Charleen said sardonically, quoting his words with the dramatic bunny ears of her fingers, "how come they were deleted?"

"Director's preference."

"I've seen some movies where those deleted scenes would have been nice to have. Added character depth and everything."

"That's why they've included it in the special features."

"They should have included it in the actual movie."

"I'm not arguing that point; trust me, I wholeheartedly agree," Oswald reassured. He eyed the wooden clock that sat on top of the mantle. "Unfortunately, we won't be able to get to those deleted scenes. At least, not tonight."

"Why not?" Charleen pouted.

"Because your bedtime is coming up."

"I don't need a bedtime. It's not like I have to go to school or something."

"That's actually a good point," Oswald noted, looking at her seriously as he placed the DVD case down on the arm of the couch. "How is it that you _aren't_ going to school?"

"Because I'm an orphan, remember? No one cares about orphans."

Well, he had forgotten that, hadn't he? Oswald had been so distracted by the fact that she had stayed with him and Sylvia at the mansion, it had almost felt like she was their… _No…No, don't do that to yourself._

"Would you like to go to school?" He asked curiously.

"Like where everyone else goes?" Charleen said incredulously, thumbing the air behind her. "With all those losers, those naïve fucking creeps? Why would I do that when I can learn stuff here."

Oswald tittered, "As flattered as I am by your confidence, neither Sylvia nor I are accredited teachers."

"You don't have to be a teacher to homeschool someone. Plus, I've learned my ABC's and I count to a million fucking easily. Anyway, it's not like you're my parents or anything. I don't _have_ to go to school, and I don't need to learn anything more than what I've already learned."

Oswald paused the movie, and looked at her pointedly: "What about social studies?"

"What's social about studying?" Charleen quipped, smirking at him. "What's history gonna teach that it wouldn't teach me later in the future?"

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"They say history repeats itself. Odds are, it'll repeat itself once again while I'm alive. So, that takes the work out of me learning history, since history's gonna do its thing anyway."

"That…" Oswald began, but he smiled. "That's not a bad argument."

"Yeah. I know." Charleen grinned widely and sat on the couch cushion beside him. "What else you got?"

"Mathematics."

"Again: I can count to a million better than anyone. And, not trying to implicate myself or anything—so don't fuck with me on this—I'm a rather good thief so I can obviously count money. So that includes finances, and probably algebra."

Oswald clicked his tongue: "English."

"What the fuck is wrong with my grammar? Do I use the wrong 'your'?"

He genuinely laughed at her response.

She stared at him: "What the hell is so funny?"

"Nothing." He waved her rising temper away and continued. "Literature."

"I don't want to read."

"You need to know how to read."

"Well, duh," Charleen replied with a roll of her eyes. "I know _how_ to read. I'm not fucking illiterate. I just don't _like_ to read. It's boring. Everything that's in a book is basically on television."

"I would love to argue with you on that one, but we don't have the time in the world to debate how incredibly wrong you are," Oswald sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Fine. Next subject?"

"Science."

"I know how to make a bomb with aluminum foil and toilet cleaner. It doesn't really catch fire, but it'll really make your ear drums _wish_ they couldn't hear." Charleen said slyly, tossing her hair with a playful flip. "So that takes care of chemistry. Also, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that a lit match around an oxygen tank is a recipe for disaster, and—"

"Enough."

"Is it annoying you that I'm just slowly proving you wrong?" She said smugly.

"You're not proving me wrong."

"But I _am_ kind of right. Everything you can learn in school, you can just as easily learn growing up on the street. But _not_ the other way around."

"Next subject," Oswald continued coolly.

"Fine. What you got?"

"Astrology."

"Who the fuck is studying the goddamn sky all night? Who has time for that?" Charleen said with a dark chuckle. "If people spent as much time getting rich as they look up at the sky, they'd be fucking millionaires. If they tried a little harder: billionaires, like Bruce Wayne."

"Home economics?"

"I'm not knitting socks for _anyone_."

"It's a _useful_ skill," He tried to persuade.

"It's a waste of time. That's what the dry cleaners are for."

"Well," Oswald said dismissively, "It's a useful skill when there are no dry cleaners around or hospitals, and you require a needle and thread to stop the bleeding."

Charleen quirked an eyebrow at him: "You _knit_ wounds?"

"I never have," Oswald said with a small hint of embarrassment. "But Sylvia has. She's a whiz when it comes to patching up wounds in a pinch. What about social sciences?"

"Psychology? I thought that's Lark's specialty. Ain't Sylvia supposed to be the mastermind of human emotional intelligence?"

"She is…But that shouldn't deter you from studying the process yourself."

"But I could easily learn it from _her_."

"It's nicer to learn it in a controlled environment," Oswald said firmly. "Not in a room that's full of abrasive drunken idiots who can't tell a compliment from an insult…or an obvious initiation to a spontaneous brawl."

Charleen put a hand over her mouth, stifling her laugh.

"What!"

"Why would I learn social sciences at a bar?" She asked, disbelieving.

"It's just an example."

"You're basically proving my point, though. Literally every subject you mentioned, you and Sylvia can teach me. And I don't have to go to public school. Besides, kids are mean." Charleen reminded unhappily. "They're always trying to take your books, smash your face in the lockers…Not to mention they gang up on you in bathrooms and stuff."

Oswald frowned, but not because he was annoyed by her observations. Mainly, he was reminded of his own schooling experiences, none of which were pleasant.

"Plus," Charleen added lightly, pointing at him. "You're one of the smartest people I know. Why go to school when I'm living with you?"

"Because being around other people your age would be beneficial to your emotional and mental maturity as a teenager," Oswald said coolly. "But I appreciate the compliment. Also," (He took her hand and placed it down on her lap) "Don't point at people. Remember: It's impolite."

"You've literally killed people, but I tell you what: You're really the most 'manners guy' I've ever encountered in my entire life. And, fun fact: You're still not my dad, and Sylvia isn't my mom. So, neither of you can force me to go to school. I'm an orphan, and orphans don't get enrolled in any school. We all just wait for someone to adopt us, take us in, treat us bad, give us up, and then wait for the cycle to begin again. Sunrise, sunset." Charleen said almost contemptuously; she gave him a second's glance before she looked at the television and said ironically, "So can we watch the rest of the movie now, or are we gonna keep talking about boring old school shit?"

Oswald sighed, rolling his eyes, and pushed 'play' on the remote.

He leaned back and smiled inwardly when Charleen stayed seated on the middle cushion.

As the movie continued, her head slowly moved to his shoulder, but she quickly sat up looking at him timidly.

"Shit, um, is it okay if I put my head there, or…?"

"It's fine. I don't mind."

"Okay. Thanks…" Her head slowly laid back down on his shoulder as she continued watching the movie.

* * *

The movie was over.

Three hours of non-stop rattling, ear-ringing, bloody torture. By the last ten minutes, Oswald had never felt more desensitized to the sound of agonized screaming in all his life.

Next time Strange tried to brainwash him, he'd just have to watch this film and it'd be an instant cure!

Once the credits rolled, he turned off the television.

"That was …" Charleen searched for the word.

"Abominable," Oswald suggested.

"Yeah, that'll work! That said, I think I'm going to bed. I don't know if I'll have nightmares or night _terrors_."

"If they wake you up, just come to my room. You can sleep there for the rest of the night."

"Why?" Charleen asked suspiciously. "Do you have some kind of miracle cure or something against nightmares?"

"No. But I imagine your waking hours can be ruthless when you're alone with your thoughts. No need for your nights to be the same way," Oswald said sympathetically.

Charleen smiled gratefully but looked him over with concern: "Aren't _you_ going to bed?"

"No, I'm going to wait a little while."

"Why?"

"I'm expecting a visitor."

"Why?"

"Just a hunch."

"Who?" She asked interestedly. "It's not that _Tarquin_ guy, is it? He's kind of a creep compared to the other guy that used to work for you."

"Edward Nygma, you mean?"

She nodded: "Yeah, Nygma was better."

Oswald sadly smiled, saying, "I couldn't agree more."

"So, who're you staying up for? Is Sylvia supposed to come home?"

"No, she won't be home until tomorrow evening."

"So, if it ain't Creepy Tarquin, Nygma, or Sylvia, who're you waiting for?"

Oswald smiled cryptically: "Just someone you've never met."

"That's kind of a weird thing to say. But I'm too tired to ask more questions." Charleen yawned. She hopped off the couch. "I'm gonna go now."

"Good night, Charleen."

"Good night, Dad."

Oswald blinked, raising his eyebrows.

Charleen looked startled seconds after realizing what she'd said. Almost immediately, she started coughing _really_ hard and said quickly, "Sorry—started coughing there, I think there was something in my throat. Wh-what I meant to say was, uh, 'Good night, _**that**_ movie was awful'."

He smiled as she hurriedly headed up the stairs. Something like this happening earlier in his life might've made him feel a bit uneasy about it, but for whatever reason, Oswald felt almost _flattered_ by her Freudian slip. Something good came from this night after all.

* * *

Some hours after Charleen had gone to bed, Oswald remained on the couch, holding a flashlight in his hand with a fierce grip. His apprehension building as he waited, and waited, and waited. The crackling embers from the fireplace did little to calm his high-strung nerves, and when he heard a female's eerie ghostly voice begin to sing the birthday song, he could barely contain himself as he demanded to know who was there.

Then a door slammed!

"Father?" Oswald said fearfully, looking around him.

The female's voice continued to sing: " _Happy Birthday…to…you…"_

"Who's there!" His entire body trembled.

He knew he'd expect someone, had waited all this time! But the fear that came with expecting his long-deceased father to appear to him in the dead of night could not prepare him for the moment when Elijah popped up seemingly out of nowhere!

His skin was paler than the moon; his eyes sunken in as if he'd literally been tossing and turning in his restless grave. He stepped forward, but his steps were merely an apparition as if done for illusion's sake; he merely glided instead of walked.

Forsaking his fear and hoping to aid him, Oswald moved towards him, begging, "Father! Tell me! How do I help you? What can I do!"

"Find me, my son," Elijah instructed desperately. "I cannot rest until I lie underground once more. He cannot be trusted!"

"Who?"

"Isabella is over on the other side with us, whispering tales of murder. Dark plots are in motion, my son. _Don't trust him_!"

" **Who**!" Oswald demanded.

Elijah whispered his response as if the very answer would damn him to an eternal punishment: "The birthday boy."

And in that instant, he vanished.

Oswald looked at the place from which Elijah had disappeared, believing, and disbelieving what he'd seen at the same time. His first instinct was to call Sylvia; as warming (sometimes) as it might've felt to see his father once again, it was creepy and left a cold, almost unsettling, feeling in his bones. Like he was being haunted.

He took his phone from the end table, dialed her number. When it started ringing, he immediately hung up.

She was literally 500 miles away. What could she do from that distance, other than tell him what he already knew? Elijah had appeared as a warning to him, a vision, perhaps. She'd offer her support, tell him he wasn't crazy for seeing ghosts, but why should he worry her further? She was already investigating a lead to the person responsible for uprooting his father's body! She was doing _more_ than enough to put his mind at ease.

And while she did that, he could figure out what his father meant by 'birthday boy'. Who could it be? So many suspects, so many possible enemies that might have wanted him to suffer for all the things he'd done in the past? Who could be responsible?

Oswald frowned. He'd hoped that these clues might come in time. For now, he'd have to sleep. After all, he had an important interview to attend tomorrow, and he'd have to try to look his best…although, thanks to the movie he'd seen with Charleen and, now, the morbid message he'd received from his father, Oswald had little faith in any of that happening now.


	79. Bazara

Chapter Seventy-Nine: Bazara

* * *

"Bazara's last known location was Gotham City itself. So how do _you_ know where he is?"

Alex and Sylvia sat in the car, waiting in a drive-thru at a taco joint. While Sylvia sat in the passenger seat, Alex took over the wheel as it seemed most logical since he knew where he was going. Although, as it happened now, he wondered how much faith she had placed in his resources.

Busily, she opened one of her planners. Alex wasn't too discreet when he side-glanced it, curious as to what she'd been working on while they'd been watching the movies on pay-per-view at the hotel, or during breakfast the following morning. They'd have stayed for the hotel's buffet luncheon, but more pressing matters had them leaving, telling the Maître D that they would be back for dinner.

"I know where Bazara is staying because I keep an eye on him," said Alex coolly.

The car pulled a few centimetres forward, keeping up with the line.

"Don't trust him?" Sylvia asked with a small smile. "Your own partner?"

"Like I said: He had issues with me at the helm." He tapped the wheel to symbolize the reason for their fall-out. "And it's not that I don't trust him. He was a little neurotic, sometimes, but he'd always need someone to take the rap for whatever he did or when he fucked up. Like when the police came, there was always a decoy, waiting—most of the time, it was the fall guy, anyone but him. I just want to make sure that he's not trying to get back at me for leaving the heist or that he's trying to make _me_ that fall guy."

She looked up from the planner, peering at him.

"Ironically," He continued with a tinge of agitation, "He never had a plan. I always had to come up with one. Then he'd tell me it wasn't good enough, and weirdly make me feel stupid for coming up with it in the first place."

"And this is someone you claim was an awesome partner?"

"Well, when he did like a plan, he'd really commit to it. One of the best bosses too."

"The 'best'?"

"Well," Alex smirked and nodded his head in her direction. "Present company, excluded."

"Mm-hmm, thought so. Still…A guy who has control issues, who makes you come up with the plan and dismisses it the moment he hears it because it's not _his_ idea?" She rolled her eyes. "I know how that feels."

"What, does Penguin—"

"—No, he's not like that. _At all._ But I know the type: Dated a few like that, actually."

"What are you working on over there? I hear your pen scribbles." Alex asked arbitrarily as she continued to jot something down before turning another page.

Sylvia looked up at him with what was an unreadable expression. After a second or two, her expression became soft and understanding. Slowly, she closed the book.

"This is the Mayor's agenda for the next couple of months." She said coolly.

"You're all the way out here and you're still—?"

"—Yeah, still working. That's me: First Lady of Gotham, all the time."

"Except for all the times that you're Penguin's First Lady of the Underworld."

"That's really corny, Rooster."

Alex raised his eyebrows at the way she used his moniker: Not a single ounce of sarcasm, cynicism, or joking laced in that sentence of hers, although she did sound amused by his attempt of humor, which seemed to work since she shook her head with a small titter.

"What's the Mayor got you doing while you're all the way out here?"

"Nothing much. I plan this kind of thing on my own initiative," Sylvia said as she put the agenda in the back seat with a duffel bag she'd packed specifically for Bazara's visit, none of which were clothes.

Although, that wouldn't have been a bad idea.

Alex dressed like he was getting ready to head down South again with his beach attire, including open-toed brown sandals, while Sylvia wore black cotton: capris, long-sleeve, button-down, V-neck shirt, and laced up leather boots: She looked as though she was getting ready for a funeral at a biker bar, or a war in Gotham.

The car drifted forward a little further, halting behind the car in front of them.

"He's got conferences scheduled for that much time later?"

"Tentatively, yes."

"You sound like he's not going to be Mayor soon," Alex noted with a casual smile. "This interview with Margaret Hearst really has you worrying. What's the big deal?"

Sylvia sighed as if she'd finished explaining her emotions about this woman over a hundred times. As many times as she'd tried to dissuade Oswald from taking the interview, it might as well had been.

"Hearst is—She has a reputation," Sylvia explained. "Whatever you think you know about yourself; she'll find out. Whatever you _don't_ think she'll know, she already knows. She's damn good at her job, that's why her audience values her input so much."

"Sounds like you admire her."

"'Someone who is feared need also be admired'."

Alex looked at her with a smile.

She looked back at him expectantly: "What?"

"That's some wise shit that just came out of your mouth."

"Not my words." Sylvia held up a hand, waving away his flattery.

"Who said that then?"

"Dad."

Alex nodded, but didn't dare venture further on that topic. He may not have known her as well as he thought he did, but the topic of her father was always a sensitive one. It was as though she had a hate-love relationship with the deceased, and he wasn't agile enough in his emotional wares to run that marathon in a thousand years. He'd tried once already when they'd been together: Obviously, it didn't take.

"So," Alex continued, glancing out the windshield, "We're almost to the window."

"Finally. We've been waiting in this goddamn line for nearly over thirty minutes. We could have just _walked_ in."

"Yeah, but then we'd be waiting even longer."

"Not necessarily."

"The point of a drive-thru is _fast_ food. If you walk in, you're not getting it fast. What's the point of fast food if it doesn't come quick?"

"The point of fast food is convenience, not speed." Sylvia remarked with a smirk. "You're paying for the fact you don't have to cook, not because it's firing at you through a cannon."

"Wouldn't it be great if they shot it through a cannon? That would really decrease the wait time."

"And increase the clean-up time."

"It's the principle that counts."

"On principle," Sylvia said smoothly, "I would not like to clean up taco from the inside of my car for the next hour after waiting at a drive-thru for the last thirty minutes."

"This taco joint is worth it, trust me."

"I hope so. Sitting this still is making my back hurt."

"Or was sleeping in something other than a bed the problem? I told you to sleep in the bed with me," Alex reminded.

"And I told you beforehand that I wasn't going to share a bed with someone that isn't my husband or another family member."

"Well, that armchair didn't look comfortable."

"It did its job. I slept alright."

"You were really restless though; you kept moving around, waking me up."

"Well, I'm so sorry I made you uncomfortable."

"I offered you the bed."

"It was fine, honest. Besides, I didn't want to sleep too heavily."

"Nothing would have happened, you know."

"Probably not, but I wasn't going to take a chance."

"The fact that you still think you might be all over my dick in your sleep is kinda flattering," said Alex with a small grin.

Sylvia shook her head and gave him a once-over before saying pointedly, "I'm not worried about _me_ being all over _you_."

He pretended to be offended but said amiably, "So you think you're more good-looking?"

"Oh, without a doubt."

"Shots fired…ahh!" He mimed getting hit multiple times and he reached out to her dramatically. "Sylvia! Ah! Take the wheel! You're gonna have to…gonna have to…" He went limp. "Man down!"

"Hey, Man Down, the line's moving."

He suddenly popped back to life and tapped the gas pedal a little, arriving at the window promptly. A few minutes later, they were coasting down the highway: Him, eating a quesadilla on his lap; Sylvia, munching down on a soft taco.

* * *

Alex tracked Bazara down to an apartment complex. The city in which they'd found themselves was smaller, but the traffic was repugnant. As they parked in the back of the complex in a more secluded space, Sylvia stepped out of the car, opened the backseat, and unzipped the duffel bag. From it, she handed Alex a Glock, which he took readily as she pocketed one in the back of her capris.

Alex noticed she had a shot gun in the floorboard.

"We're not taking that?" He asked, gesturing to it.

Sylvia chuckled, "Why? That's a little overkill, don't you think?"

"Why?"

"The guy's probably 60 years old by now."

They'd started walking away from the car, but Alex halted.

She looked at him, surprised: "What?"

"Why would you think he's 60 years old?" He asked incredulously.

"I figured by now he's 60. His mug shot was almost 20 years ago; they hadn't been able to update it because he either escapes custody as he's done now or the police officers can't be bothered to update their books. Both of which tend to happen quite frequently in Gotham."

"Oh, no, I get the mug shot," Alex said, lowering the weapon. "But he's not much older than you or me."

Sylvia stared at him.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"We're talking about the same guy, right?"

"Bazara, the grave-robber," Alex recalled. "Yeah."

"So why are you telling me he's our age when he's this grumpy, old-looking dude, mustache and all?"

"Bazara wasn't the happiest guy around, but he wasn't grumpy-looking. I think that's just his resting bitch face, to be honest."

"How can you tell me he's not old? His police records say he's 60 by now. _That's_ old."

"But he's not."

"How can he not be?"

"I don't know!" Alex snickered. "Maybe the police got their lines crossed."

"They can't have. Look, I brought the record with me. Hold on…"

Alex walked with her back to the car and waited for her to pull out the chart from the duffel bag. She hastily handed it to him, and he took it less than hurriedly, not sure why she was having her small second doubts. When he opened the chart, he saw a picture of the grumpy-looking man. But instead of an expression of familiarity crossing his features as she'd expected, Sylvia saw Alex stare at the picture, uncertain.

"Who the hell did this?" Alex chuckled, holding the chart.

"Did what? That's Bazara."

"Naw, girl, that ain't him."

"Then who is he?"

Alex sighed, shaking his head: "I knew that guy was loyal, but I didn't think he'd take the fall for him."

Sylvia frowned: "Who? What the fuck are you talking about?"

He held up the chart again, showing her the picture of the criminal: "This isn't Bazara. That's Bazara's Uncle Fredo. The guy was in and out of his life, but he always came when Bazara needed him to run these stupid decoy traps. I guess the decoy ended up in a trap, and the police caught him."

Sylvia snatched the chart away from him and threw it in the car.

Alex looked taken aback by her aggressive response, but he said calmly, "Problem?"

"That's who I planned on seeing when we got here! Where the fuck is Bazara then if he's not here?" She gestured to the apartment furiously.

"This _is_ where Bazara was last seen. You've just been chasing Bazara's uncle this entire time."

"Fuck…" She rolled her eyes. "How come the GCPD think that this Fredo fucker is Bazara then?"

"In hindsight, they probably don't even know what he looks like. Bazara stayed fucking clear of social media, newspapers, and never made a full appearance. He always had people like Fredo or me go in his stead. Control issues, but he was smart—that type of guy."

"So, no one knows what he looks like except the people who work for him?"

"Basically."

"So, Jim doesn't even know."

"Clearly not," Alex said dismissively, giving the chart in the duffel bag another look. "I guess your brother was just following the trail the other cops in the city had. Not his fault for misinforming."

"Of course, it's not his fault!" Sylvia snapped. "It's my fault for underestimating some guy I've never met!"

"It's okay!" Alex quickly reassured, patting her shoulder. "It's okay! Look, I know what he looks like, how he's like, what he's all about. You've got me, okay? We're still going to go through with this just as we planned. We'll go in" (He made a sweeping movement of his arm) "do what we gotta do and then come back out, just in time for dinner and to watch the Mayor make his debut and humiliate Hearst on _live_ television."

Sylvia nodded slowly, smiling at Alex with a hint of relief: "Okay."

"Are you good now?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, just got a little…"

"Hey, it's okay. Let's go interrogate this guy, see what he knows. At best, he's our guy. At worst, he's not."

Sylvia and Alex headed inside the apartment complex, walking up the stairs within the building to the door that was listed as belonging to Bazara.

Alex knocked.

No answer.

Alex knocked again.

No answer.

"Maybe he got the hell out of Dodge…again," said Sylvia ironically. "That would be our luck."

"Nah, he just doesn't answer the door half the time." Alex chuckled. "Wants other people to do it for him. He's got like a 'king' complex."

"Yeah," She muttered, rolling her eyes. "I know the type."

"You know this type a little too well," Alex snickered.

"Because I've dated the same type."

"The type that made you feel like you would disappear?"

"Or had me wishing I could, yeah."

"Out of curiosity, what was the name of this guy you dated? Sounds like a real dick. Is his name 'Dingle' or 'Fred'?" Alex said coolly.

"His name was Everett."

"Number One?"

"Yep." Sylvia said curtly. "An asshole to the 'T'."

Alex knocked again, but there was no answer.

"He's not coming out." He resigned.

"Yep, it looks that way," Sylvia sighed. She moved Alex to the side and he willfully did as she nonverbally asked. "Let's see if he'll answer to this."

He watched her eagerly.

She pounded on the door three times and shouted in the authoritative voice he was accustomed to hearing from Jim Gordon: "GCPD! OPEN UP!"

The voice that came from the inside said irritably, "GCPD? Who the fuck is—"

The man that came to the door wore no shirt, but he was decked from neck to ankle in Celtic tattoos and muscle. He wore ripped jeans and held a beer in his hand. His mouth tilted in a familiar smile and his piercing gray eyes reflected at Sylvia's the moment he opened the door.

"Well, well, well…" He drawled, leaning against the door frame. "Sylvia, my little puppy. How's it going?"

Alex glanced at Sylvia, taken aback, while she glared at him unhappily.

"Hey, Everett."


	80. Number One

Chapter Eighty: Number One

A/N: Thank you again, SilverIce523, for your long reviews. You give me life XD

* * *

Seeing Sylvia, Everett cast her a smug little smile before leaving the door completely open, inviting her and Alex inside his homely apartment. There was nothing too notable about its turpentine walls or the busy knickknacks, shelves, furniture, or the woodwork that inhabited the large studio apartment.

However, when Sylvia stepped over that threshold, it felt as though she might be luring herself into a cave of little wonders. Even though the air was hot, there was an ominous icy feel to it. Instantly, when Alex closed the door, she felt like she was a prisoner as if the warden had given her a few hours out in the yard before cuffing her in the iron shanks she used to wear all those years ago.

"Soo," Everett drawled as he sat down on a leather black armchair, squeaking as it uttered its own reluctant protest. "Clever idea using the GCPD as a way of getting inside—although I always thought that was beneath you, Puppy: impersonating an officer, and all. That was _very_ illegal of you."

Alex was beside himself, glancing between his old partner's sheepish grin and to Sylvia, who could barely hide her animosity whilst in this man's presence.

As a partner, Everett (or 'Bazara' as he once known him) was fun to be around, comical even, despite his need for everything to go his way. The way the condescension just oozed from his voice as Everett watched Sylvia prowl around the apartment checking for sneaky ninjas grated Alex's nerves in a way Everett never could. Maybe it was because he spoke to _her_ this way, and he wasn't used to that kind of treatment towards a woman.

"There's not a lot that I'd consider to be beneath me when it comes to hunting down someone who's wronged my family," Sylvia said with surprising calm, standing somewhere behind him as she glowered at the back of his head. "But I guess you wouldn't know that since you didn't try to know me at all."

Everett laughed quietly, picking up his feet and crossing his ankles on the foot stool in front of it, sounding as if he absorbed her retort with remarkably good humor, but that was until he drank the rest of his beer and threw it behind him towards the kitchenette of his studio apartment, nearly hitting her. She ducked seemingly out of a well-ingrained habit; her glare intensified.

"I think I know you pretty well."

"Trust me, dude," Alex said airily, although he was alarmed by the aggression shown between the two other occupants of this somewhat smaller space. The tension felt nearly claustrophobic. "You don't."

"Oh right," Everette eyed him. "I forgot you were here."

He stood up and, in a few steps, he towered over Alex, who looked up at him challengingly. At first, it looked as though they might start a brawl. Instead, Everett cracked the biggest grin and he pulled Alex into a bear hug, clapping him on the back.

"God _damn_ , it's good to see you, Rooster!" He said loudly. "It's been years!"

"Yeah, it really has." Alex hugged him but took a step back or so. "I gotta tell you, Bazara—or…Is it Everett?"

"Shit, you know, call me whatever you like. 'Bazara' was an alias—I don't mind if you still call me that. All the ladies, like this hot little cupcake, they like calling me by my real name. I don't mind it so much either if you know what I mean," Everett said roguishly, nudging Alex in the rib with his elbow.

Sylvia approached him, one hand on her hip.

She said brusquely, "What have you been doing for the past year?"

"Whoa, whoa, what's with the tone? No 'hello'? No 'hey, good to see you again, baby'?" Everett said sardonically. "You're just going straight to business, focused, not distracted?"

"Someone in Gotham City took a body out of a grave in the dead of night," She continued brazenly. "From what Alex tells me, you were in the grave-robbing business a little while. Why don't you tell us what you were doing 11 p.m. last Monday?"

"You been hanging around your brother too much—you sound _just_ like a cop."

"Just answer the goddamn question."

"Hey, now…" Everett sat down in his armchair, crossing a leg over his knee. "Ya'll getting a little fiery on me, and that's something I'm not used to. What happened to sweet-talking little old me into doing what you like? Honey catches flies, baby doll. I remember you used to like it yourself."

Alex cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself and away from Sylvia, who looked as though she might scratch Everett's eyes out in a matter of seconds with her own bare fingernails.

"Tell me what's up, Big Man," Everett said smoothly, addressing Alex while he eyed Sylvia up and down. "Tell me what's up with you, what's up with this entire ensemble. How'd you end up with my Puppy—"

"I'm not your fucking 'puppy', jackass," Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. "And I'm not your goddamn dog."

"Looks like you need to be muzzled—whoever's got you kennel trained now, obviously ain't worried about you biting them. Unless that's a turn-on for them. What'd I'd tell you before: When I talk—"

"—When _I_ talk," She interrupted impatiently, stepping forward, " _You_ will listen."

"So, you _do_ remember your lesson all those years ago. You always were a quick study. But don't you try turning them on _me_." Saying so, Everett made a motion to get out of the chair; this was a bluff, but it worked. Just as he pretended to do so, Sylvia took a step back, flinching.

Alex's mouth parted a little, realizing that Everett was the reason. If anyone tried implying that anyone told her what to say, when to talk or where to go, Sylvia became infuriated. Maybe these 'lessons' Everett had tried teaching her still held their sting. They obviously did as Alex observed the way Sylvia's jaw torqued almost instantly when Everett gazed at her dangerously, as if her outburst might've been met with equally swift punishment to match the crime.

"Ah, yes, you do remember." He whispered, satisfied.

"You're an _asshole_!" Sylvia said shakily; while her voice betrayed her fear, she no less kept her assertive stance.

While she may have been damaged by Everett's cruel views on what made a successful relationship, Alex could see how her being with Penguin had helped rebuild her into the strong woman she was now. There was a certain amount of respect that Alex had to give the King of Gotham: he'd nurtured her, mended her broken heart, allowed her to believe in love once more, and treated her the way Sylvia always deserved to be treated: like a Queen.

"Now my feelings are hurt," Everett gave her a small smile. "You know how much it hurts to be talked to like that? You were my best girl."

"Among the other five you were fucking behind my back."

Alex stared at Sylvia. He'd seen her angry, but he'd never seen her so… _angry_. And how easily Everett had dug himself under her skin so quickly without much effort was almost terrifying. Did Sylvia still have feelings for Everett as well?

"Guy's gotta eat," He said lazily, leaning back in his armchair. He looked at Alex knowingly. "So, you're her new guy, am I right? I admit: She has good taste."

"Dude," Alex said carefully. "Look."

He pulled the stool from Everett's feet, sitting on it instead. His ex-partner's amusement dulled in his eyes when he did.

"We got a problem of huge importance back at Gotham—"

"—Oh, you went back, huh?" Everett interrupted dryly. "You know, I get why you left. Not much in Gotham."

"Yeah, well, there wasn't much down here either."

"Pussy's good for the picking, but the good ones always are a little selective in how they're watered. Like little flowers. She, my man," said Everett smoothly, glancing at Sylvia, "was a rose…a little thorny though, but—"

"—Dude," Alex said firmly. "Stop talking about her, okay? She's _right_ there. And we—"

"You came to _my_ apartment, sidled up with _my_ girl, after being _my_ partner," Everett reminded coldly. "You think I'm just gonna let that slide?"

"Sidled with—? She's married, man!"

Everett gave Sylvia another look, as if seeing her with new eyes. She approached Alex, looking at him imploringly.

"Let's get out of here," She whispered.

"Why? We haven't gotten any information we need yet," said Alex just as quietly.

He saw Sylvia look uneasily at Everett before looking back at him.

"I don't want to be around this prick any more than I need to."

"I get that, but we _need_ to find out if he's our man. Remember?" He patted the outside of her leg. "We're doing this for Penguin. Just go over there" (He pointed with his eyes in the direction of a bookcase farthest from Everett's proximity) "I'll do the talking, huh, Liv?"

She looked at him as if she might slap him, but hearing the reason why she needed to stay, Sylvia closed her eyes with forced patience, and nodded for him to continue. She glowered furiously at Everett before she continued to prowl around the apartment, looking at the different knickknacks on the bookshelves—not a speck of dirt on the kitchen counters—as if she were trying to distract herself…as if she was trying to find her 'happy place' among the oh-too-familiar surroundings despite having never been in the apartment before.

"You guys mentioned 'Penguin'?" Everett said coolly, smoothing the palm of his hand over his bald head. "What's Penguin want with me?"

"Well, that's still up for debate. The thing is," Alex explained, "Someone took a body from a grave. And that grave belongs to his father. Not a lot of leads to go on, but Jim Gordon pulled your name—"

"You mean Officer James Gordon…?"

"Well, he's 'Detective' now."

"That rookie cop really knows how to move up the food chain, huh? Well, of course, he pointed the finger at me." Everett said disappointedly, glaring at Sylvia. "I guess he has ulterior motive."

"All he did was give me a lead," Sylvia said indignantly; Alex noticed how, despite coming to Jim's defense, she sounded as if she were trying to defend _herself_. "We needed answers, and he used his resources to help me out. The cops aren't even aware that 'Bazara' doesn't exist. At least, not the _real_ one. _Is all_."

"I didn't realize you'd be working for Penguin," Everett said with a simpering grin. "Here I thought you hated everything that was illegal."

"I didn't 'hate' crime," She retorted assertively as she walked back within his proximity, although she kept her distance so that if he reached out to touch her, she could easily dodge the swipe of his arm. "The both of you" (She pointed to both Alex and Everett) "simply assumed that I wouldn't be able to take it because none of your fucking girlfriends could. You just assumed that I was either too naïve, too innocent, or too stupid to work with you. Or all three."

Everett sent an accusatory look to Alex: "So you _are_ dating—"

"— _Dated_." Alex immediately corrected, raising his hands. "Little over six, almost nine months. Not even a full year."

"Ah." He seemed to relax. "So, what broke you guys up?"

"He left me to do more outside of Gotham, and joined you," Sylvia answered flatly.

Everett guffawed, "Oh shit, you're kidding! He left you for _me_. Well…" A smug smile appeared on his face. "I can't really blame him, I mean, look at what you were back then. And look at you now—not much has changed, huh? That's disappointing, considering."

A subtle wince crossed Sylvia's indifferent expression. Alex frowned. Hearing Everett's disapproval struck an emotional chord in her, evidently, as she quickly looked away, her ears and neck turning slightly pink in mortification.

"Some years later after you and I split up," Everett told Alex as if he didn't already get the implication, "Puppy and I dated for a couple years. We were good together. I guess that was after you broke it off with her to join me. Even if you and I didn't have a long run: two months, not much of a partnership. Good call, by the way—breaking up our little gang. Honestly, if you stayed with me, it'd probably be you in jail instead of my Uncle."

"Speaking of which," Sylvia said curtly, "how could you let your uncle take the fall? That's horrible."

"Hey, he wanted to take the fall—insisted!"

"I have a hard time believing that."

"What would you know about hard time?"

"Well, for one, I dated _you,_ didn't I?"

Alex smirked. Now _that_ was the Sylvia he was used to.

"Hmmm!" Everett stood with a grin. "That kind of mouth will get you in trouble..."

Sylvia stepped back when he took a step forward.

"Whoever's got you now, they must like it. They've let your tongue waggle at _both_ ends. And you know what? I like it. I don't mind it, even." Everett drawled, moving closer. "Now, I know I did you wrong, cheating on you and all that. But you know, it was on you. You never gave me any love when I needed it, and that's _all_ I really wanted from you. No need to come at _me_ with your anger because I just wanted to be the perfect boyfriend."

Alex stepped forward when he saw Everett slowly corner her, literally. He took Everett's shoulder and moved him back.

"Hey, man," He intervened. "This ain't cool. We're literally only here to ask a question."

"So, ask it," Everett uttered.

He reached out, and gently caressed Sylvia's cheek, but seeing as how she glowered at him with resentment (and was it also fear?), he might as well have been choking her.

"You were my angel baby, Sylvia. My little puppy. And I gave you everything you wanted…including the things you were afraid to ask for." He smirked at her: "A new Daddy—"

"Stop!" Sylvia said unevenly, pushing him away. "That's not what I wanted! It's what _you_ wanted. You wanted a _dog_. A _mutt_."

"And what did _he_ want?" Everett said coldly, glancing at Alex.

"He wanted a princess," Sylvia retorted, "but it was better to be treated as a princess than treated like a bitch!"

Everett growled lowly, taking a step towards her.

Alex jumped between them, holding out one arm which kept Everett at bay and the other formed a sort of gate-barrier in front of his ex-girlfriend.

"Did you rob a grave at any point in time?" Alex demanded firmly.

Surprisingly, Everett retracted his dangerously possessive gaze and he crossed his arms, smiling handsomely: "I've not been doing much of anything for the past five years. A few odd jobs, but none of that grave-robbing business: it's for chumps."

"Good to know." Alex said coolly. "That's all we wanted to know. Great seeing you again, partner. Let's go, Liv."

He began to leave, taking Sylvia's forearm to move her out of the room quickly.

It was an odd feeling: For once, he could see his old partner as the man he truly was. He'd never seen Sylvia so nervous and angry at the same time, the way she seemed to walk on eggshells, as she'd mentioned, and how she seemed more guarded around Everett than she'd ever been around himself.

"So, you're all gonna leave now?" Everett said sarcastically. "You know what: That's actually probably for the best. Take that sweet little whore with you, you'll get more use out of her than I ever could."

At his response, Sylvia's cheeks, ears, and neck flushed red. In his peripheral vision, Alex could see her hand reach behind her to the hidden Glock nestled between her back and the waistband of her black capris.

Alex leaned into Sylvia, whispering, "Go to the car. I'll be there soon."

"What are you going to do?" She asked earnestly, lowering her hand from her back to his arm.

"Just go to the car…Please."

She glanced at Everett whose cold gaze met hers. She nodded to Alex and quickly headed downstairs.

"Hot piece of ass—what a fucking _mouth_ ," Everett chuckled deeply. "Whoever's got her now…"

"Dude…" Alex sighed exasperatedly. "She's married, man. She's married to the Penguin."

"Penguin?" Everett repeated. "She's married to that limp chicken?"

"She's married to someone who treats her good," He corrected curtly. "And, look. We were partners. We were friends. Then ex-partners. And I know I left you hanging, so I get why you're being an asshole to me. But damn, man, she was your girlfriend at one point. Why're you treating her like that?"

"She didn't mind it too much before."

"I think she did, and she just didn't have enough self-esteem to leave you sooner for someone better."

"You're wrong," Everett snickered. "She liked that kind of talk. Got her wet. She was giving it to me even when she didn't want to, but you know…after a while, they just give in."

"Are you saying you—"

"—I didn't do anything she didn't want me to."

" _Did_ she want it?"

"Hard to say," Everett sighed, rolling his eyes. "I just kinda used to read her mind."

"If you treated her back then the way you just treated her just now—"

"—Hey! Not to throw stones, _partner_ , but it sounds like you didn't treat her too well either."

"I didn't. And, you know, it's been my biggest regret."

"Well, no country town for old pussies." Everett exhaled, sitting back in the chair. "As for that Penguin guy, he's gonna regret it sooner or later. Sylvia ain't easy: she makes you work for it all the time, especially when she's pissed off. It's the reason I had to start getting pussy on the side."

Alex frowned: "Penguin ain't gonna have to worry about anything. With the way he treats her, he'd never have to ask her to do anything. Dude, it's why we're _here_. She found out that Penguin's dad was taken out of his grave and we came all this way to find out who did!"

"Well, you're leaving empty-handed, I guess. Like you did all those other times. Chump."

Alex sighed deeply, looking up at the ceiling.

He couldn't even believe Everett was Bazara. Two different people: he supposed that when Bazara was with his male-friends, he was one way; Everett, however, was the real person behind that charming persona; he was the real guy that women had to deal with. The worst type of person who would try to make you feel bad for having legitimate reasons to be angry.

If Oswald felt this way towards him, Alex could see why he wouldn't like him around. Perhaps him leaving Gotham was for the best.

"Everett."

"Yeah, man?"

"Did you ever love Sylvia Gordon?" Alex asked quietly.

"Love is complicated, man."

"Well, did she love you?"

"Yeah. She said it a couple of times."

"But did you love _her_?"

Everett snickered, "I told her I did. It seemed the only way I could get her to suck my dick. You understand that more than—"

Alex punched him in the face. A hard, right hook.

Everett fell to the ground, knocked out cold.

"She's right. You _are_ an asshole." He spat on him. "Fucker."

* * *

When Alex came back down to the car, he hopped into the driver's seat, putting his Glock in the glove compartment, and glanced at his passenger. As expected, Sylvia was smoking a cigarette, the hand holding it lined parallel along the window while the other hand lied in her lap; she held her weapon, her forefinger on the trigger.

"Hey." Alex said softly. "Sylvia…?"

He started the engine, glancing at her again when she didn't say anything.

She stared out the window. The hand that held the cigarette was shaking ever so slightly. Her eyes were floating, her bottom lip lightly trembled.

"Sylvia? Hey…" He touched her thigh with a comforting rub. "Are you okay?"

She met his eyes. When she did, a tear rolled down her cheek.

"Aw, shit, hey…hey…It's okay."

He leaned into her and pulled her into a hug. She dropped her cigarette to the pavement below. As he did, Alex took the gun from her hand and placed it on the dashboard.

"I can see how he made it to Number One: What an asshole." He whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

She didn't say anything back, but he could hear her sniffle as she allowed her fear and humiliation to slip out through her silent crying.


	81. Voicemails

Chapter Eighty-One: Voicemails

* * *

Alex took a shower the moment they got back into the hotel room, if anything to wash off the disgusting feeling caused by Everett's misogynistic toxicity.

Sylvia threw the duffle bag next to the entrance of their room, plugging her battery-dead phone into the wall via charger as she turned on the television. To her disappointment, the interview had long since passed. The whole issue with Everett had taken longer than expected, delaying their arrival at the hotel in time to watch Oswald and Margaret Hearst live.

When the faucet silenced, Alex walked out of the bathroom thirty minutes later, a towel wrapped around his lower half. As he dried his hair with a spare, Sylvia sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed, eating a bag of chips taken from the cabinet in the kitchenette.

He frowned, seeing her eyes stare at a single spot on the television after she brought her now-charged phone to her ear. A look of concern tightened her face, and Alex lowered the towel, watching her curiously as she spoke.

"Oswald, are you okay? I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you before—phone died, and we found out Bazara…Well, he's not the guy, but are _you_ okay? You've just been leaving some weird voicemails and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Okay…Um, call me back."

Alex sat on the edge of the bed: "What's up?"

"It's Oswald," Sylvia said precariously, pushing the bag of chips away from her, moving off the bed so she could stand.

"What happened?"

"That's it—I don't know, something's going on with him."

"Probably just nerves—"

"—No, it's not that," Sylvia dismissed worriedly. "I know what Oswald sounds like when he's nervous. This…This isn't nerves. It's almost hysterics. Listen."

She searched her voicemails. One out of three. Oswald's voice sounded off from the speaker.

"Pigeon, I've been trying to call you. Maybe your phone died—I'm going to assume it did. I wasn't going to call you at first, but Father said not to trust the 'birthday boy'. I'm going to try and find out tomorrow who that is. I hope you're sleeping better than I am right now. I love you." End of voicemail.

Sylvia said with an attempt of calm, "That was last night."

Alex blinked, saying, "Isn't…I thought your father-in-law was murdered."

"He was."

"So, Penguin's hearing his dead dad talk to him?"

"It's a long story, but yeah."

"So, he's going cr—"

"—Don't say that word. Oswald can act erratic at times, but he isn't crazy."

"But he thinks he's hearing a voice—"

"—No, he thinks he's seeing his father's ghost."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

"No, I don't believe in ghosts," Sylvia said coolly. "But that doesn't stop him from believing them. And the conversations I have had in the past with him: he believes it with his entire being. But, I mean, he's been having trouble sleeping for the past week or so, and everything has been stressing him out, so…

"So, there's—"

"I know, I know." Sylvia said carelessly. "That's not the one that concerns me. Listen to this."

She retrieved the second voicemail: it was dated today, approximately five minutes before Hearst's scheduled live interview.

"Sylvia, listen to me," Oswald's voice sounded much more rushed, urged, as if he was trying to get several words out at a time, "You're not going to believe this, but Tarquin Stemmel—He's the 'Birthday Boy'. I-I'm in his office—Was a bag and in that bag was my father's remains, a-and I'm not exactly sure _how_ he's involved but—" End of voicemail.

Alex stared at the phone this time.

"What comes after that?" He asked apprehensively.

Alex recalled his past interactions with Penguin as Penguin being on the more clear-headed spectrum. So, hearing his almost-panicked voice was a little unnerving.

"Not much. That's how it ends. I think he was interrupted, or someone walked in. Anyway," Sylvia said nervously, "This is the last one. Ten minutes ago."

Third and last voicemail: "Tarquin was involved somehow, I know it. No way of finding out how since—well, to keep things short, he's gone and I think I killed him but I'm not sure, his body's gone and so is my father's, and I don't know what's going on." (Sylvia could hear the rustling of the phone as if Oswald might've been home, pacing.) "Honey, I don't know what you've found out or where you are in your task right now, but I really don't care anymore. _Just come home_ , okay? I feel like I'm losing my fucking mind, please…I need you, just come home…I love you."

Alex threw the spare towel into the bathroom, holding the towel around his waist to keep himself covered as he lifted his suitcase from the ground to the foot of the bed.

"What are you doing?" Sylvia demanded.

Alex opened his suitcase, taking out some clothes as he said sternly, "Doing what he says. Let's go back to Gotham. I'll drive three hours." (He threw on a shirt.) "You drive the other three. We'll get back to Gotham by nightfall."

She said skeptically, "I thought you wanted to take another dip in the jacuzzi…?" She glanced away as he dropped the towel and stepped into a pair of jeans, pulling up the waist band and buttoning them.

Alex handed Sylvia her own suitcase and she took it, looking at him incredulously as he said with a smile, "Fuck the jacuzzi. Penguin needs you. Let's go."

She smiled at his change of tune, grateful that he understood.


	82. Ace in the Hole

Chapter Eighty-Two: Ace in the Hole

* * *

Ed stood in a parking lot underneath a car installation building, leaning against one car in particular as he surveyed City Hall with a mindful gaze, waiting for a man with whom he'd been acquainted with during his time at Indian Hill.

As this flexible faced man approached, he first appeared to be the physical, breathing animation of Penguin's father, Elijah Van Dahl; his appearance weaved and plucked by peering at old newspapers and clippings in the same way Isabella had made herself look similar to Kristen Kringle, as well as Ed's allowance of him to peek at Elijah's detailed portrait that hung above the fireplace in Penguin's mansion he'd inherited from the deceased.

Clayface was his name: impersonating people with absolute precision was his game.

He approached Ed with Elijah's smile. They stood within three feet of each other as Ed met him at the trunk of the car, lifting its back to see the duffle bag filled with Elijah's remains, a freshly murdered corpse of his deputy Chief-of-Staff, as well as the trophy with which Penguin had killed him during his hysterics.

"You did an excellent job," Ed congratulated, grinning widely.

The man in question lifted his hands to his own face, rubbed it as if he were literally molding clay, and took a fresh breath as though his own skin stretched before the start of a new day. Clayface grinned, looking at Ed with a pair of bright, icy blue eyes, their pupils barely the width of a ballpoint pen's tip.

"He bought it?" Clayface gathered.

"Hook, line, and sinker."

"Voice wasn't quite right, but, uh, you know…"

"Don't be so quick to give yourself a harsh review," Ed observed. "I doubt anyone could've done a better job."

"Cleaning up the mess was harder. When Penguin gets mad, he gets _mad_ , doesn't he?"

"As he would."

"Out of curiosity…?"

Ed looked at him with an expression of expectation: "Yes?"

"How come you didn't use his mother against him?" He asked interestedly. "That would have probably brought about a whole lot more passion from him."

"I considered it, but there are things you just don't do—even to your worst enemy."

Clayface sniggered, "You're going to eventually kill the guy, but you're worried about boundaries?"

Ed gave him a look when he heard the judgmental tone, but he didn't change his position on the matter either. He heard a slow clap; Clayface strolled, standing behind Ed as Barbara Kean and Tabitha Galavan sauntered forward, meeting Ed as they'd agreed to do earlier this morning.

"Bravo, boys," Barbara purred, smirking. "Penguin lost his mind on national TV. Just like you said he would."

"It's all about the power of suggestion," said Ed modestly, "and whispering in the right ears: Telling Tarquin to do what I say, promising him the position as the next Chief-of-Staff, turning off the lights in the mansion to illicit the _exact_ emotion when Penguin's father appeared to him, or who he _thought_ was his father."

Clayface bowed slightly at the mention.

"It helps that Lark was gone the entire time, didn't it?" Barbara noted. "How'd you set that one up?"

"I didn't." Ed pointed out. "That was purely coincidence. However, you can always depend on her to try and lift the burden off Penguin's shoulders when it becomes too great."

"Where did she go, anyway?"

"To hunt down whomever she thinks took his father's remains, I imagine. Gordon probably gave her a lead."

Tabitha said strictly, "I didn't think Gordon tried to taint his good-boy reputation with anything bad."

" _Detective_ James Gordon doesn't. 'Jimmy', her brother, tries to help Sylvia in any way he can."

"Why do you think?" Tabitha said dully.

"Trying to make up for being a shitty sibling, I guess," Barbara said, shrugging, answering on Ed's behalf. "He's sometimes a workaholic, if you couldn't figure it out."

"Gordon isn't who we should be worried about. He's irrelevant," Ed uttered calmly, gesturing away from him to dismiss the cop's existence.

"You're right."

"Of course, I'm right. I imagine Liv's trip will be ending soon, though."

Tabitha interrupted their discussion, saying, "Why didn't you just leave these bodies for the cops? Why not have him arrested?"

"That's too easy, Tabitha," said Ed with surprising camaraderie. "I want this to be a slow, painful death. One of a thousand deep cuts. First we take away his mind—"

"—Judging by that interview, I say we've done that already," chuckled Tabitha.

"Then, the part I like," Barbara offered excitedly, "we destroy his empire, and take it for ourselves—"

"Yes," Ed interjected, "And the best time to do it would be now, while Sylvia is still absent. Because when she comes home—"

"—Right, she's going to do what she does best." Barbara finished knowingly. "She'll feel the need to pick up the pieces."

"Exactly so."

"When her and Ozzie's subordinates are gone, there's nothing and no one left except for Lark. But she's run this empire by herself, we all know this. She's capable of pulling resources, bringing it all back together just to make Penguin feel good. What's to say that she won't do it again?"

"Because this time," Ed said stylishly, "We have an Ace in the Hole."

"Who's the Ace in the Hole?" Tabitha questioned.

"And when this bird is broken and alone, we do the humane thing," He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "We put him out of his misery."

Barbara mimicked a sad tear before she giggled, knowing the inside joke.

Tabitha said irritably, "Uh, hello! Is anyone going to answer me? Who's the Ace in the Hole?"

"Alexander Beals. Sylvia's subordinate, and ex-boyfriend," said Ed, looking at her with a smirk. "He just doesn't know it yet."


	83. Barbara Cares

Chapter Eighty-Three: Barbara Cares

* * *

 _What a night._

And apparently, Oswald's waking hours were no better. Barbara's voice was his alarm clock evidently, as he awoke, hearing her.

"Unsurprisingly," Barbara read aloud, "'There have already been calls for the mayor's resignation. The clearly disturbed Mayor Cobblepot capped the interview by announcing 'To hell with the people of Gotham'.'"

Oswald winced as he groaned, "What are you doing?"

The bout of a hangover looming not too far away as his head throbbed.

"I'm reading," she answered cynically, turning the paper so he could see the cover as she read its heading, "'Mayor Crumblepot.' Clever, huh?"

"Where's Sylvia…?" Oswald mumbled. "Is Ed here?"

Ignoring him, Barbara continued to read, "'Neither the Mayor; First Lady of Gotham and wife, Sylvia Cobblepot; his Chief-of-Staff, Edward Nygma; nor his deputy Chief-of-Staff, Tarquin'—somebody—'were available for comment. This begs the question: Who is running Gotham?'"

Ignoring _her,_ Oswald rubbed his face tiredly, muttering, "I need to find Ed."

" _You_ need to fix this situation."

"Who cares what the people think of the Mayor? The city runs itself," Oswald said irritably.

"I'm talking about your other job. The real one? You melt down in public, hide out here—especially when Lark isn't around to do your normal damage control—people are going to start smelling blood in the water."

"Who?" Oswald questioned.

"Tommy Bones," Barbara listed. "The Duke. The East Side Gangs are holding up—particularly the ones allied with Paddock's old gang since Lark's got a foot-in with them—but south of the Narrows, the docks, there's chatter. 'The King is Dead'. Or soon will be. _That_ kind of chatter."

"I need to find Ed; he's the only who can—"

Interrupting him, Barbara smacked him with the newspaper from which she'd been reading. His response was less than subtle.

"Ow!"

"Ed's not here! _I_ am!" Barbara said emphatically. "So, get up, take a shower, do that disco vampire thing you do with your hair. I will call a meeting with the Heads of the Families, you will come. You will be your _old_ self. And the rumors will stop."

Oswald pondered her motivations and said uncertainly, "Why are you helping me?"

"Because people think you like me, Ozzie. And as long as they're scared of you, I get to keep breathing." As a point, she put down the paper with finality, standing. "One o'clock. My place."

After, she sauntered away with Oswald taking the paper and throwing it behind him.

What a hell of a wake-up call.

* * *

Sylvia and Alex arrived in Gotham in less than five hours; that usually happened when the two of them were natural speed racers. As they approached the city limits, Alex glanced at Sylvia from his seat in the passenger's side. They hadn't spoken much about what happened with Everett/Bazara; maybe that had been for the best, but he felt inclined to put his hand over hers that held the gear stick as she down-shifted when the speed limit was set below 45.

At his gentle gesture, Sylvia glanced at him curiously, smiling inwardly.

"So, what did you tell Everett back there?" She asked. "Sounded like you were going to put a cap in his knee, the way you were acting before I left."

Alex shrugged, saying, "I couldn't get a word in, but I did let him know how I felt about how he treated you back there…and all those years ago."

Sylvia tilted her head to the side, watching the bridge lower behind them through the rear view mirror as they drove to the mansion.

"And how did you let him know?" She asked interestedly.

"I punched him."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Knocked him out cold," Alex said smugly. "Fell like a tree. I'm guessing you would've thought of something better?"

Her eyes darted to the glove compartment where both Glocks were located and she said softly, "Yeah, but maybe it was for the best that I left."

"Probably. He wouldn't have been worth your energy."

"Easier said than done. You don't know what kind of shit he did to me."

"No. I have an idea." Alex said uneasily, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "But I meant that he wouldn't be worth going to Black Gate. That's giving him too much credit."

Sylvia smirked, saying, "Well, what you did was technically assault and battery. That will land you in Black Gate if you have a fucked-up lawyer."

Alex shrugged: "Worth it."

* * *

Barbara minded her bar, enjoying the quiet that came with the emptiness of her club. Not that it would be good for the visitor she expected.

Oswald came inside the club, pacing through with cane in hand, and his hair done up in its usual fashion. He really did feel like himself, an improvement from his previous mood. As he passed through, stepping to Barbara's bar, he looked around, impressed.

"Am I early?" He asked.

"I sent out the word, said you wanted to see everyone, express summons, et cetera, et cetera," said Barbara modestly, looking around, gesticulating as well. "And…See for yourself."

Oswald sighed, "This is a rebellion."

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you. I mean, not even Lark showed up with her Paddock followers—"

"—Sylvia is preoccupied. Not that I expect you to know that."

"Considering she's always doing something on your behalf, I'm not exactly surprised either."

Oswald smiled endearingly at her: "You have been such a friend, Barbara" (She put a hand to her heart, honored) "Tell me. What should I do now?"

"Well, if it were me," Barbara said sweetly, "I would pick one of them—the Duke, maybe, or Tommy Bones—and teach them a lesson. They don't respect you, Oswald. In fact, you probably want to kill Tommy Bones and the Duke: Just clean house!"

He looked impressively distraught at the idea of such a task, but then he started to laugh which he stifled, seemingly at her expense.

She said sarcastically, "Well, I'm glad you can find the humor in it."

"Did you really think I would be so easy to manipulate," Oswald said coldly.

He lifted his cane as a demonstration, held the handle, and unsheathed its hidden dagger, slamming his hand on the counter. To his satisfaction, Barbara flinched slightly at his aggressive behavior.

"What was your plan?" He demanded. "Take advantage of me while I was in a weakened state? Trick me into attacking my subordinates so that they truly did rebel. Inciting war so that _you_ could pick up the pieces? My dear, you are _tragically_ out of your depth"

"Oswald," She attempted to persuade. "I am your **friend**."

"Perhaps I should call Tommy Bones. Or the Duke. Even better, I think I'll call Sylvia—or any one of the Families—and ask them if you really invited them to this meeting. What would they say?"

Just as he said so, the phone on Barbara's right began ringing. She looked at it as if it would answer their questions; light as a feather, she lifted it and answered.

When the caller on the line spoke, she said gingerly, "He's right here." She handed the phone to him and said indicatively: "Tommy Bones."

He took it from her: "Yes?"

Tommy Bones spoke in his typical low, perpetual dull voice, "You get the message? We don't work for you no more. Your day is done, _freak_."

Instant rage hit Oswald like a slap in the face as he threatened him: "How dare you! I will gut you! I will hang your entrails from every lamppost in Gotham!"

"Then Nygma dies."

"What?" Oswald gasped; he felt his heart jump as if he felt it just underneath his throat.

"Walk away quiet. Maybe we'll send him back in one piece. We'll even let you keep being mayor." And after that…Dial tone.

Oswald looked helplessly up at Barbara, who returned his gaze with an inquiring one of her own.

"They have Ed," He said worriedly as she gently took the phone out of his hand. "They're holding him hostage! I will kill them! _Every one of them_! I have to go! I-I have to gather my men…I have to…" He quickly left, muttering indistinctly to himself.

Barbara watched him leave shortly before she picked up the phone, redialed the same number that called a second ago, and waited. When the receiver picked up, she said sweetly, "Put her on."

The phone was handed off to her girlfriend.

Tabitha's voice answered lovingly, "Hey, baby."

"He bought it," Barbara drawled with a smirk. "After you get rid of those lovely characters you got with you, do you want to order Chinese? I'm feeling egg rolls tonight."

"Works for me. What about the others?"

"One Family at a time," Barbara mused. "But we won't touch Lark's people until we have to."

"Sounds forgiving."

"I can be soft and gentle when I want, you know that. Love you, babe."

"You too." Tabitha hung up.


	84. What Ed Told Alex To Say

Chapter Eighty-Four: What Ed Told Alex To Say

* * *

Sylvia and Alex arrived at the Van Dahl Mansion.

As he stepped inside, Alex looked around, perpetually amused but impressed by the antiquity and grandeur that such a home possessed.

As she bypassed him, Sylvia touched his arm, saying, "Make yourself at home. I'll just put my suitcase up and I'll be back down."

"Where's Penguin?" Alex asked as she headed up the stairs.

"I'm not quite sure. I've been calling but, hey, maybe _his_ phone is dead now."

"Technology, right? Three steps forward, four steps back."

"Nice observation: never heard _that_ one before," Sylvia teased, smirking when Alex's face blushed a shade of bright pink.

While she was gone, he slowly strolled throughout the mansion: first, he glanced inside the kitchen and dining room, most of it appearing dark even when the lights were turned on. He briefly visited the bathroom to relieve his bladder, having held it in for nearly three hours after the first and only stop at the gas station throughout their six-hour rush back home. Then, Alex sidled into the living room, the portrait of what was presumably Penguin's father hanging above the fireplace. He finally sat on the couch, testing its flexibility as he bounced up and down with a child-like humor.

Sylvia joined him, holding out a wine glass filled halfway with a clear liquid.

"Wow," Alex said congenially. "Champagne. I thought you didn't want to drink around me?"

"I'm in familiar territory now," She explained smoothly.

"Right. I feel like _I'm_ not. So, that—what—evens the playing field between us."

"If you'd like to think of it like that, sure: why not?"

"Do you always offer champagne to your guests?"

"Only those who are of age. Which reminds me…" Sylvia said mindfully before she stood up and walked over to, and stopped at, the stairs. "Charleen? _Charleen_!"

Alex leaned forward, catching her eye: "Who's Charleen?"

"Just a girl I've been caring for. I guess she's not here either."

"Does she normally come and go as she pleases?"

"Yeah," said Sylvia, joining him on the couch. "She's her own person. Reminds me of Selina Kyle in some ways."

"Who's Selina Kyle?"

"Another little girl I've had the luxury of being acquainted with. Another is Ivy Pepper."

"You're pretty friendly with everyone, aren't you?" Alex laughed, smirking at her. "Have a passion to help little girls? Do you help the boys too?"

"Those girls very rarely ever need my help, but it's nice to let them know that they have some support if they ever need it. Even if they don't ask. Mostly, they don't. So, I normally have to do it myself."

"Ah, yes…" Alex muttered. He drank a little from his glass, placing it on the table. "About the whole 'doing it for yourself since they don't'…I've been thinking."

"Thinking?" She encouraged. "About what?"

"About my current, uh, position."

"Yes?"

"I know you don't mind me working for you," Alex said softly. "And, by all means, I _love_ working for you; it's actually more fun than I thought it would be."

"Uh-huh."

"But that whole thing with Bazara—Everett— _whoever_ —It's got me thinking that maybe, me working for you with Penguin around is not such a good idea."

Sylvia's smile faltered as she placed her glass down on the coffee table: "What do you mean? You mean you _don't_ want to work for me?"

"Honestly, it's not just that. Everett was a bad guy, you know. He really made me feel like he might do something terrible to you, especially when he got so close to you." Alex admitted, smiling despite himself since he was talking openly about his feelings—something he never thought he'd be doing freely without having spent time with Sylvia.

She nodded, understanding: "So what're you telling me?"

"If what I felt towards Everett is how Penguin feels about me being around you, I'm thinking that's not fair to you **or** him."

"Ah." She smiled respectfully. "I think I got it now."

"Yeah, and I was going to go before that conversation needs to happen with Penguin. But first, I want to say something to you. I don't know if it'll change anything. But it's kind of like a 'damned if I do, damned if I don't' kind of scenario."

"…Okay…"

"And I'm going to say it and since it's the last time we'll see each other," Alex continued, "I think it's best if you don't interrupt me, okay?"

Sylvia nodded but sadly smiled.

Alex stood to his feet, standing in front of her. The heat of the fireplace seemed to amplify his already flushed skin. Was it because he knew that it was the last time when he would ever see her again? Or was it shame because despite respecting Penguin, he was going to make one last ditch effort to tell her just how she truly made him feel?

"What is it?" Sylvia prompted.

Alex nodded, finally gaining his nerve.

"Sylvia…" He said gently. "Everything you say and everything you do resonates with me. The way you look, the way you dress, the way you talk, and the way you order people around. Everything about you is perfectly _imperfect_. And since seeing you again, it's hard for me to envision any life without you."

As he took her hand in his, Sylvia was faintly aware of the front door opening.

"What I'm trying to say is," Alex said shakily, gazing into her eyes. "You are my heart. You always have been, always will be. I love you, Pigeon."

 _BANG!_

Hearing the gun shot, Sylvia startled, screaming when Alex fell to the floor, holding his stomach where the bullet had pierced him, knocking the glasses of champagne onto the ground as he did.

Once he was on the ground, another gunshot rang through the air, and it caught his shoulder.

Alex let out a gasp and grunt of pain as blood spattered on Sylvia's face and neck, and covering her hands as she moved towards him.

He struggled to breathe.

"Alex, shit, it's okay… _Shit_ …Who..." She looked up.

Oswald stood, shaking. He'd never looked more murderous, and his glare didn't soften when Sylvia trembled as she peered in his direction.

"Oswald...?" She uttered desperately, startled, seeing him. Noticing the gun in his hand, soon after, she said fearfully, "Oh my _god_ , what did you do!"


	85. What Have I Done

Chapter Eighty-Five: What Have I Done

* * *

Alex lied down on his back in front of the fireplace, his hands over his stomach adding pressure as Sylvia instructed. He tried to do what she said even as her voice seemed to fade in and out; he was weak, bleeding out from the bullet wound in his abdomen and shoulder.

He looked up at the ceiling, his vision askew as he tried to meet her eyes. He saw her worried expression, how her cheeks became wet as she tried not to cry (although her body betrayed her).

"Press down on it," Sylvia urged, her hand resting on his hands firmly. "Press down… _Harder_."

"S-Sylvia…" Alex began.

"Shhh! Don't talk, don't talk!"

"It's no use, I'm not gonna—"

"—I said shut up!" She snapped.

Oswald stared at her, lowering the gun to his side as he took a step forward.

He'd just come back from Barbara's club, knowing his empire was slowly crumbling, knowing his mayoral reign was deteriorating, and now, what welcomed him home after a grueling day was Alexander Beals holding his wife's hand over a glass of champagne!

He still shook with rage. Seeing how concerned Sylvia was over Alex's current disposition—after once claiming he meant nothing to her—was not making anything better.

"You're going to be okay," Sylvia muttered, patting his hands as she looked around at her surroundings, seemingly ignoring Oswald. "I-I can fix this—I can fix you, just—"

"Stop…" Alex gasped.

"—Shh, shh, stop talking, I can fix this, just give me a second. I'll just—"

He grabbed her hand that was reaching for the poker from the fireplace behind him; she was intent on cauterizing his wounds, but he quickly hushed her, hoping to calm her down before the inevitable happened.

"Don't!" He whispered.

"But you're dying!"

"I know. And…And you know…" He gestured slowly to his stomach, lifting his shirt. Blood covered every inch of his abdomen. He said gravely, "I'm not coming back—back from this. T-Too much blood."

Oswald stepped forward, tossing the gun to the side with finality. He'd had enough of this.

"Sylvia, get off him." He ordered.

"You _shot_ him!" Sylvia snarled, glaring at him from her seat on the floor. "Why did you shoot him!"

"I told you long ago that this man would vex me one too many times and there would not be a single thing you could do before I decided to dispose of him. Did I not?" He gesticulated to Alex's slowly dying presence adding viciously, "Not to mention he called you 'Pigeon'!"

"He didn't know—"

"—EVERYONE KNOWS THAT I AM THE _**ONLY**_ ONE WHO CALLS YOU THAT!" Oswald bellowed.

Sylvia sniffled, her tears rolling down her cheek, looking from her husband's furious glowering to Alex, who blinked back his own tears as he shook under her hands.

"He didn't know, Oswald!" She said helplessly. "I told you he's an idiot—"

"No, no…I knew!" Alex spoke in a raspy voice, quickly pawing at Sylvia's arm as if he needed to instantly confess his sins before the light took him. "I-I knew…"

"Then why did you say it!" Sylvia cried, looking down at him.

"Because he…told me…to…"

"Who?" Sylvia questioned. " _Who_!"

Alex smiled sadly when he felt her hand caress his face as if he'd hoped that the last thing he wanted to feel would be her true hidden affection for him before his eyes closed and his body went limp: dead weight. Sylvia bowed her head, and when her shock of his passing lifted, she slowly stood to her feet.

Oswald stepped back a pace, seeing her eyes brighten with that familiar rage he was accustomed to seeing, although he'd never been on the receiving end of it.

"Why the _fuck_ did you do that!" Sylvia shouted.

"Why do you think! He had his hands on you—"

"So? It wasn't anything like that!"

"In time, he would have—"

"No! He was going to _leave_ Gotham! He wasn't even staying!"

"How was I supposed to know that!" Oswald snarled back, pointing down at Alex's dead body. "Why was he even here!"

"He was here to talk to you. We both were! We agreed to do it after we dealt with Bazara—"

Oswald's eyes brightened as his rage darkened: "You mean to tell me he was with you this entire time!"

"He was!"

"Why didn't you tell me! Were—"

"Because I knew you would act like this!" Sylvia responded hotly, gesturing to him. "Now, look! Look at what you've done to him! Look what you've done to _me_!"

"I didn't do _anything_ to you!"

"What do you mean you didn't do anything to me? You shot my _friend_ , Oswald!"

"He's not your friend! He's your ex!"

"HE WAS MY **FRIEND**!" Sylvia shrieked, her voice breaking, and her fury died amidst her devastation.

Honestly, if Oswald had to choose, he'd wished she had stayed angry. When she sat on the couch, her entire weight brought her down as if she'd lost all the energy in her body. Her hands covered her face and the sobs that echoed from behind them tore at him; her shoulders shook violently.

It was only then that he'd realized the magnitude of what he'd done.

"Sylvia, listen to me." He reached out to touch her.

"No."

"Sylvia—"

"— **No**!" She instantly moved away, getting to her feet, and sharply turned towards him. "Oh my god! Is your jealousy so out of control that you can't see that it's literally destroying _everything_ in your path! And if your jealousy isn't, it's your fucking paranoia!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your father was never talking to you, Oswald! He's been dead! He still _is_ dead because ghosts are _not_ real! No one we know took your father's remains!" Sylvia shouted, aggressively pointing to the portrait above the mantle. "And you can't even tell where your father's body has gone either! Maybe no one even stole them! For all we know, you are _losing_ it!"

"I don't know where they are now but he —"

"—And then people are telling me you're sending hits out all over town!" Sylvia reminded furiously. "Benson said you put hits out on Santino, Tommy Bones, the Duke, Don Anderson, _and_ Ron Maroni! You're going after your own subordinates and for _what_!"

Oswald grabbed her arm when she threatened to leave, and she looked at him just as heatedly.

"Someone has kidnapped Ed, Sylvia! That's why those hits are happening—"

"—You don't even know who—"

"—Tommy Bones spoke to me on the phone—"

"And where is he now!" Sylvia said loudly, pulling her arm out of his grip. "Where _is_ Tommy Bones? Where are any of them? Because Benson tried contacting them and no one is answering the phones. Did you kill them too?"

"I don't know! I don't know where any of them are," Oswald retorted. "And I don't care. But someone has Ed, it could be any one of them; I just don't know who!"

"How do you know he's really been kidnapped? How do you know if this isn't just something to distract you so someone else can knock you off your perch? Once these people start saying they have someone you care about, you're readily snapping heads—aren't you supposed to be the clear-headed person out of the two of us?" Sylvia reminded pointedly.

"I got a phone call _from_ Tommy Bones saying they have Edward—They don't sound like they're lying. I thought I'd be able to depend on _you_ to help me figure that out but then I come home and you're sitting in _our_ home, drinking with your ex-boyfriend, and—"

"—And your instant reaction is to _shoot_ him?"

"He deserved it!"

"He was _leaving_!"

"So he says but he's lied before, **hasn't** he, Sylvia?" Oswald retorted angrily.

She let out an exasperated sigh, like her energy was zapped out of her instantly. She looked down at Alex; his eyes were glazed over. She sat on the couch again, rubbing her face. Oswald sat beside her, lightly rubbing her back, hoping to assuage the situation, but the moment she felt him touch her, she instantly flinched away.

"I need to leave," She said meekly, edging away from him.

"Sylvia, I need you."

"And I needed _you_ to trust me!" Sylvia said tearfully as she stood. "But it's clear you didn't. And, seeing as Alex is _dead_ —"

"—He called you—"

"—I told you _over_ and _over_ that I don't have any feelings for him. After everything we've been through—Falcone, Maroni, Fish, Galavan, Demetri, all those people—how can **one** man threaten our relationship, our marriage! I told you that you had nothing to worry about as long as you trust me but—seeing as Alex is dead—it's clear you **don't**!"

"Wait, wait, where are you going!" Oswald asked worriedly, getting to his feet as Sylvia stormed towards the door.

"To my brother's!"

"—Wait—"

"—I love you, Oswald, I still do, **despite** this," Sylvia said angrily although she looked as though this alone was hard to say, "but I can _not_ be around you right now!"

"Sylvia, please—"

"—I'll call you when I'm ready to come back!"

She walked away, slamming the door on her way out, leaving Oswald alone.

Oswald looked down at Alex's body then to the door from where she'd left.

He whispered with utmost regret: "What have I done…?"


	86. The Reason Behind Her Anger

Chapter Eighty-Six: The Reason Behind Her Anger

* * *

Jim sat in the living room of his one-bedroom apartment, lounging in an armchair as he watched a football game without really paying attention as to which team was winning: after all, it wasn't the playoffs. He languidly sipped from a half-full beer bottle, listening to the television as it turned to a commercial about some off-brand sneakers, and to the rain that had started pattering against the windows.

The meteorologist had mentioned there would be rain: Then again, this was Gotham. Gray, stormy clouds were regular visitors to this large city, so rain always made its appearance, no matter the degree of invitation.

The sports game became something of static as he thought back to what Lee had said when she'd come storming inside the GCPD station, declaring his arrest for Mario Falcone's 'murder'—no matter how justified he'd been in killing him, Jim wished he could take it all back.

He'd just finished his beer, reminiscing the more pleasant times when he and Lee had been together when the rain's intensity picked up. It was only a few seconds after the pounding before he stood, heading towards his front door, peering out of the eye hole to see who was visiting him at such an odd time at night.

"Vee?"

Jim stared at her, taken aback to see his sister standing in front of him once he unlocked and opened the door. Rain had dampened her hair and clothes, but what spattered her face, neck and her dress was unmistakably blood. _Was it hers_?

"Jimmy! I…Oswald—he—! Alex! A-and I tried—"

She gasped and choked on her own words.

Jim hurriedly pulled her inside, closing and locking the door before any of his neighbors might peer out of their own to glimpse the reason for the commotion and loud voices. He'd lived on the first floor in the apartment complex, so odds are Sylvia hadn't needed to scale any long flights of stairs to get to him. That didn't mean there weren't any nosy bodies waiting for something interesting to happen.

Sylvia's face was contorted into two primary emotions, both of which seemed to accompany the Gordon family quite frequently; those emotions were anger and anguish. When he managed to lock the door, he took her hand and gingerly moved her to his armchair, encouraging her to sit down in spite of her persistent need to get out whatever it was she tried to articulate.

"Shh, shh, calm down," He gently hushed, patting her arms. "Sit down. Here…I'll get you a towel."

She clumsily tried wiping her face with her wet hands, smearing the remnants of blood from her neck and face to her soaked sleeves.

Jim strode to the bathroom, whipping a clean, folded towel from the cabinet beside the shower, breathing shallowly.

He'd been accustomed to reacting quickly when he'd been in the Army: rescuing a man down wasn't an easy task, but he successfully completed the mission with the hardy stomach of a well-trained soldier. However, when it came to seeing Sylvia arrive on his doorstep, crying, covered in blood, and crying about Alex and Oswald in the same incoherent sentence, Jim could feel his bones shake. It was hard to see her like this: so frazzled and in such a disarray. Sylvia, who always seemed so well put-together—even when she wasn't. There was an eerie sound to her cries as she sat in the armchair, trying to warm herself by rubbing her hands over her arms.

He'd not heard that kind of helplessness in years. Not since the time when she managed to pack her bag and run away from Everett, arriving at his doorstep in the way she'd presented tonight. All she needed to do was tell him that he'd hit her, and he had been more than happy to storm across the city and give him a piece of his mind. Sylvia's plea to stay away was the only reason Jim hadn't followed through on his idea: Back when he'd just gotten out of the Army…He'd been a different man, then.

"Here," Jim offered, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. She clung to the material in the instant it made contact with her skin.

"—I tried, but…and it happened so fast, there's—I wanted…"

"Easy…" He sat on the arm of the chair, rubbing her back, trying to warm her up.

Sylvia looked up at him; despite the rain that ran down her face, he noticed that tears also dampened her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy. As if she'd cried on her way to his apartment. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace; she fell into it with little resistance.

Her tears wet his shirt, but Jim didn't care. He waited for her crying to subside.

* * *

A few buckets of tears and an hour later, Jim could hardly believe that she'd been in the previous state of disrepair as she had arrived. Knowing her predilection for the stronger stuff, Jim had procured a glass and filled it half-and-half with cranberry juice, cherry vodka, and a _lot_ of ice.

He momentarily left to the kitchen, returning with a cold beer in his hand.

"Now," He said slowly, sitting across from her on an old coffee table, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "How about you start from the beginning and tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened," She answered dully.

"The hell nothing did." He popped the top with a beer opener; it hissed before loosening, leaping to the floor.

Sylvia brought the glass to her mouth, sipping quietly.

"There was blood on your clothes," Jim continued, gesturing to her old clothes that were in the washer.

She currently wore a shirt of his: a plaid long-sleeve shirt that was way too long in the arms, so Sylvia had folded them to the elbow. She wore a pair of leggings that had previously been left behind by Valerie Vale that seemed to fit her fine; she wore Vale's flats as well, tucking both feet underneath her, resembling a cat lying down. Her damp ginger hair now kinked by the rain tangled around her shoulders.

"You came to my door and you were covered in blood," Jim emphasized. He took a drink from his beer when she remained silent. "It's not yours, is it?"

"No. It's not mine."

"So, do you wanna tell me who it belongs to?"

Sylvia looked at him pointedly: "It implicates me if I do."

"Off the record." Jim promised.

"You're a cop." She reminded flatly. "You're never off duty."

"This is different."

"How is this different?"

"It involves you."

"That doesn't make it different. It never does make a difference."

"Why do you say it like that?"

"What, you disagree? I have a couple examples in the past where your stance of being a detective reigned superior than your loyalty as my brother—not docking points for that, by the way. I know how much being a cop means to you. But for argument's sake…First example that comes to mind? You and Barnes were raiding the Count House, the Merc. Those warehouses were in Oswald's territory and, by association, mine, and that implicated me. Forget that you're my brother and your raid put a dent in Oswald's empire and put a dent in my marriage. That kind of thing involved me."

"That was on Barnes."

"But you helped."

"Barnes gave the order for the raid."

"He went after the Count House, yes, but my spies tell me that you're the one who told him about the Merc."

"I was doing my due diligence."

"You were being a cop—my point exactly—knowing that it would involve me somehow."

"I was going after Penguin. It had nothing to do with you."

"When you go against Oswald, you come against me. I think you already know that."

Jim shrugged the blame away literally, rolling back his shoulder as he emphasized, "Barnes really was going after Penguin. He was the Captain. What am I going to do? Disobey the orders of my superiors?"

"I can tell you're going to hide behind your 'orders' rather than admit that you thoughtlessly involved me just to go after Oswald, so let's just put that example to the side. Let's say all of that was on Barnes, and I was not _directly_ involved. How about Galavan?"

Jim furrowed his eyebrows confusedly: "What are you talking about?"

"Galavan was doing more harm than good, but you endorsed him even while you knew I didn't like him."

"You wouldn't tell me why you didn't like him; you never told me he was threatening you—I figured that one out on my own."

"True, you didn't know the reason _why_ I didn't like him, but you **knew** there was a rather good reason, knowing I'm a damn good judge of character. Yet, you still did it. By the way, if you don't remember, that really _did_ involve me."

"What's your point?"

"You being a cop never makes a difference—regardless if I am or I'm not involved. You're always a cop—even when you don't want to be."

Jim half-smiled: "Well, at least I got you talking again."

Sylvia frowned, looking away from him.

He sighed, lowering his beer to his knee, straightening his back.

"Alex is dead." He guessed. "Isn't he?"

She didn't respond.

"How about this…" Jim stood, drank the rest of his beer, and placed it in front of her. "Let's just get all of this out of the way: You're a criminal, I'm a cop." He gestured to her then himself, respectively. "That's the way of it. So, you don't trust me not to arrest Penguin or you for a crime either of you committed—however complicit or non-complicit his or your involvement would be."

"True." Sylvia conceded.

"And I don't trust you to tell me the truth because of that same reason, even though you're as honest as they come."

"Also, true."

"So, let's say you don't say _anything_. And I just make pretty fair assumptions. You can tell whomever—Bullock, I guess—that you didn't say anything, and I can't say that you did."

"How would I get away with that when you're standing within ear shot?" Sylvia questioned smartly. "And how can I count on you not to turn what I say against me? Your word versus mine: a _cop's_ word versus mine. That's not exactly going to fly. And I say that as your sister, by the way."

"I'm getting to that if you'd let me finish."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, but she contended.

"When I make a fair assumption," Jim said coolly, "You tap this bottle on the table three times. If I'm half-right, or on the right track, you tap it twice. If I'm completely wrong, tap it once."

"And you still expect me to respond as what, your kin?"

"No. I say we're talking preliminaries of business, so maybe it's best if we keep it as is."

"Like an actual interrogation?"

"Yes. Whatever you say here, it's strictly between yourself and Detective Gordon, who can't say anything because there are no other witnesses around to say that you did. Not that you will since we'll be playing 'tap the bottle for yes or no'."

"Did Bullock teach you this game?"

"No, I thought of it just now."

"Hmm."

He held out his hand, offering equity. "Seems fair all around. You tell me what happened; I tell no one what has been said. I think that's fair. Don't _you_ , Lark?"

Sylvia chuckled, "Hmm. Sure, Detective Gordon. That sounds fair. And I admit: pretty smart."

"I didn't make 'Detective' by bribing anyone," Jim said smoothly.

"Except that one time where you did a favor for Oswald and he threatened Loeb to restore the rank of Detective back to you."

"That doesn't count."

"Of course." Sylvia smirked when Jim sent her a scowl.

He sat on the side of the coffee table, so she had free reign on her end.

Jim crossed his arms, watching her carefully. There was a certain shift to his sister in the way he perceived her. In their negotiating tactic, it was clear that when presented with the clear case of covering for whatever it was that Oswald might have done, Lark always came to the front lines, no matter how upset Sylvia truly was. So that led him to his first assumption.

"Lark…"

Sylvia quirked an eyebrow at his continued use of her criminalized moniker but was humored at the same time.

Jim continued, "Does this incident have something to do with Penguin?"

Sylvia slowly took the bottle and tapped the table three times. That was a definite 'yes'.

"Does this also have to do with Alex?"

Three taps again: Another 'yes'.

"Did Alex hurt Penguin?"

She hesitated, a flicker of emotion breaching the calculating surface before she tapped the bottle three times. Another hard 'yes'.

Jim nibbled on the inside of his cheek and he leaned towards her, curious: "Did Alex harm Penguin physically?"

One tap: 'No'.

"So, an emotional scarring," said Jim softly.

Sylvia tapped the bottle three times.

"Ah." He glanced at the bottle. "He didn't happen to call you 'Pigeon', did he?"

She let the bottle go, looking at him, disarmed: "How…How would you _know_ that?"

Jim smiled despite the situation and said lightly, "I think I've known Penguin long enough to understand what really gets to him. He's taken more blows than I could possibly imagine, but words seem to hurt him more, particularly those that are only supposed to stay between the two of you." He gestured to her and the door, indicating his brother-in-law. "And…I remember how pissed you were when Tabitha taunted you—that day when we went to get the sword from her grandfather's crypt. She called you 'Pigeon': I'd never seen you so agitated."

"The first time Oswald called me that was when I was in the ambulance after Mike Travinsky shot me in the neck," Sylvia said defensively. "He's used it ever since. It's a term of _endearment_."

Jim raised his eyebrows: "Whoa, I didn't say it was a bad name. I'm just pointing it out. Out of curiosity, can I ask _why_ he calls you that? I can see why people called Oswald a 'penguin', but I never saw the resemblance between you and a pigeon."

"Oswald said it's a term that men used in the old days when they referred to a woman whom they thought was unattainable." She leaned back in the chair. "Basically, he thought he'd never have me."

"Or once he did, maybe he thinks you weren't his to keep."

A look of remorse creased the lines of her face as a thought fluttered about in her mind. Did Oswald, now, believe that he'd lost her forever?

She muttered, "It's not that I'm 'unattainable'. After Everett, I've just tried to be more…selective. And that takes time and energy."

"Well, I've seen you play hard ball. The men you date always end up losing interest. Who knows? Penguin might've left too if you hadn't stopped playing hard-to-get." Jim said carelessly.

And he knew he wasn't wrong. When Sylvia was younger, the boys would flock towards her as she bared them no mind. The more she didn't want them; the more they wanted her. And the exact opposite happened, that was until she met Oswald. Once Oswald and Sylvia had made their relationship known to himself and—as it was inevitable—to Falcone and everyone else, Oswald had held onto her with a vice the others like Alex or Everett never had.

" _I_ stopped playing hard-to-get because, with Oswald, I was tired of pretending I wanted more when he was more than enough for me and all I ever wanted." Sylvia said coolly, although Jim was certain he'd hit a nerve. "Anyway, that's why Oswald calls me 'Pigeon'. And, before you make fun, it's not just calling someone 'sweetie' or 'honey'. It has meaning and depth to it. That's why no one else can call me that."

Jim nodded: "So, I'm guessing Alex did."

Sylvia opened her mouth, but she stopped herself. Instead, she grabbed hold of the beer bottle once more and tapped it three times: A hard 'yes'.

"And Penguin heard him?"

Three taps: 'yes'.

"Penguin killed Alex because Alex still wanted to be with you, didn't he?" Jim assumed calmly.

Sylvia looked at the ground before she tapped the table twice: He was on track.

"Penguin killed Alex because he was jealous. What, he was afraid Alex might steal you—something to that affect?"

Sylvia tapped three times: A hard 'yes'.

"Because Alex wanted…He wanted to stay in Gotham?"

One tap: 'No'.

"He _didn't_ want to stay in Gotham?" Jim asked uncertainly.

Sylvia tapped the table twice: He was on the right track.

Jim sighed, contemplating before he clicked his tongue and said knowingly, "He wanted to stay in Gotham, but he was going to leave."

Three taps: He was right.

"Why was he planning on leaving, Lark?" Jim asked curiously.

Sylvia leaned back, letting the bottle lie dormant on the table: "Do you remember Bazara?"

"Of course. I tipped you off about him possibly being your hypothetical grave robber. Did you find him, by chance?"

"That file you have on Bazara isn't accurate. That's just his Uncle Fredo," She said offhandedly.

She looked at him with a disappointment that Jim had a hard time accepting as if the wrong chart that had been stored in the GCPD file system was _his_ error and not the error made by someone else.

"Bazara's Uncle took the fall for him when the police raided his hideout," Sylvia continued darkly. "They got the wrong man. And he escaped."

"Did he, now?"

"Yes. When he was arrested, he was booked under the name and the _real_ Bazara escaped. The real man the police were looking for was 500 miles outside of Gotham's jurisdiction; that includes yours, Detective Gordon."

"News to me. I'll have to inform the Commissioner to have his police department check—"

"No need," Sylvia uttered, throwing a hand dismissively towards him. "Alex and I found him."

"You did?"

He sat down on the coffee table once more.

"We did. Yes. Alex used to be partners with Bazara if you can believe it. Or don't. Either way, the takeaway is that Bazara wasn't 'Bazara'. That was an alias. His real name is Everett."

"You mean?"

"Yeah. _My_ Everett." Sylvia whispered, looking at Jim with that familiar expression he'd seen so many years ago.

Every time she'd left Everett's apartment to come to his, Jim saw that expression on her face. The kind a neglected, hurt chained up dog gets when he sees another dog happily riding in the passenger seat of a SUV; the kind of look an orphaned child gets when he thinks he'll be adopted but the paperwork falls through. That expression of fear, sadness, and longing all in one.

"And you and Alex…" Jim said carefully. "You asked him about the graves?"

Sylvia nodded.

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," She said with a cynical smile, but she looked as though she might cry again. "He didn't do anything to me." Then she added quietly, "He doesn't have to."

"Vee…" Jim moved to hug her.

Sylvia shied away, holding out an arm to keep him away saying quickly, "No! No—It's fine. I'm _fine_."

"Are you?" He asked, concerned.

"Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I've not seen you like this in a while."

Sylvia sent him a wry look: "Like _what_?"

"Want me to level with you?" Jim said shallowly. "Out of all the boyfriends and girlfriends you've ever had—including Oswald—Everett was the worst."

"Still is," She muttered, crossing her arms, guarding herself.

"What do you mean?"

"When Alex and I went there, Everett hadn't changed." She spoke with the intent of sounding steady, but her voice trembled. "He was still hostile, still narcissistic, and hateful. He talked down to Alex like he was a dog…then he talked to me like he used to. And the things he said—."

Jim grimaced. Sylvia sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose with two fingers. As if she was trying to repress those memories.

"It was like I'd gone back in time." She explained. "It got bad enough, Alex told me to go downstairs. I sat in the car, and I waited."

"And?"

"And nothing. Alex found out that Everett had nothing to do with grave robbing anymore, so Alex and I left to the hotel."

"So did Everett…?"

"He's alive, if that's what you're asking," Sylvia said calmly. "All he got was a punch to the face."

"That's a lot less than what he deserves."

"Agreed."

"So, you and Alex were at a hotel, 500 miles from Gotham," said Jim, business-like. "Penguin knew about this?"

"No, I didn't tell him."

"I'm guessing he found out when you two came back to the mansion together."

"Exactly."

"And he assumed that you two—"

"—Yeah."

"And when Alex called you 'Pigeon'—?"

"—You can presume," Sylvia said unsteadily, "that Oswald didn't react to it very well."

"I wouldn't think so." Jim nodded, uncrossing his arms, and rubbing his chin knowingly. "And Alex is…?"

"Yeah. He is."

" _His_ blood, then?"

She hesitated before she took the empty beer bottle on the table and tapped the surface three times.

"And Penguin?" Jim asked evenly. "He's still alive, I suppose?"

"Of course, he is!"

"Hey, I'm just double checking. You have a history for delivering blows when they're most deserved, so—"

"Oswald may have 'delivered the blow'—as you delicately put it—but he was already teetering on the edge," Sylvia said defensively. "That interview he wanted to do so badly blew up in his face, and then he was seeing his dad's ghost everywhere—"

Jim blinked: "Ghosts?"

"Yeah. Ghosts." She sighed. "It's a long story. Just suffice to say, Oswald wasn't sleeping a lot, and when he _did_ sleep, he was having nightmares. Him and his Chief-of-Staff haven't been doing too well either—"

"—You mean, Nygma—"

"—Of course—"

"—Actually, I have a question about that, and feel free to deny it," Jim offered quickly.

Sylvia waited for him to ask his question.

"Word on the street is that you and Nygma are, uh…"

"…Hmm?"

"Well," Jim struggled with the wording, "they say you two are closer friends than you were before, supposedly, uh…friends with benefits."

Sylvia chuckled, "Are you asking me to confirm whether or not Ed and I are fuck buddies?"

"Again, feel free to deny it!"

"Can't deny what's true." She said with a half-shrug. "Although, I do admit that Ed's been kind of dealing with his own issues since his girlfriend took the downward plunge."

"Kristen Kringle?" Jim said incredulously. "She's been deceased for—"

"—No, not that one. Different one, although I don't know if you'd call her 'different'. They might as well be the same, except one was a records custodian and the other was some librarian."

"I didn't realize Nygma was dating again."

"Not anymore. He's been grieving since she died."

"His new girlfriend died?"

"Yeah," Sylvia said gently. "Honestly, I think it's for the best. She really didn't deserve Ed to begin with. To be honest, neither of them did."

"A little cold, Vee."

"Well, again, you can't deny the truth."

"Are you and Nygma still…?" Jim asked, aloof.

Sylvia smirked at him, saying, "Is this supposed to be your 'protective brother' side coming out?"

"Maybe. Why? No good?"

"Honestly, you're better at just being a cop."

Jim cracked a grin: "Yeah, you might be right."

"I _know_ I'm right. But I do appreciate how quickly you got me a towel earlier. And a _clean_ one too. Consider me impressed."

"I _do_ have clean things."

"Well, you are a bachelor, living alone, drinking beer, moping about your ex-girlfriend."

"Vale and I—"

"Your real ex-girlfriend. Vale doesn't count. "

"Vale meant a lot to me."

"Yeah, so much that you wanted Tetch to kill her instead of Lee. Reverse psychology 101. Tetch is a smart cookie: I'm still surprised he fail for that ruse." Sylvia said knowingly. "But hey, tell me again how you wanted that to work out?"

Jim sighed, "I'm getting another beer."

He briefly left the room and returned, sitting on the coffee table once more. He took the empty beer bottle and placed it on the floor beside his feet.

"So, our game earlier—"

Sylvia interrupted him, humored, "That table tapping thing was a _game_ to you?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. So, what's your theory, Detective. Hmm?" She said sardonically. " _What_ do you make of all this?"

"Well, Lark," Jim said, matter of fact, which made Sylvia smirk at their whimsical play of interrogation. "From what I gather, Penguin was pissed off that you and Alex went on a road trip without telling him that _both_ of you were going. You went, came back, and he saw you two together, possibly alone. Alex was leaving Gotham, and he called you 'Pigeon'. And he didn't like that—obviously—so Alex paid the price."

"Long story short: That's the way of it."

"Penguin _allegedly_ —remember, off the record—kills Alex, your first boyfriend…Did you hurt Penguin?"

"Of course not!" Sylvia exclaimed, clearly appalled.

Jim shrugged: "I had to ask."

"Why would you need to ask that!"

"I know how you get when someone oppresses the people you love."

"Well, I cared about Alex, but I couldn't hurt Oswald even if I wanted to—"

"—All I'm saying is that I remember what you did when Penguin and I had our guns pointed at each other; the next moment, you threaten to kill my partner—"

Sylvia pointed at him, stating clearly, "Don't forget that you were protecting the man that killed Oswald's mother. That's the only reason Oswald was pointing his gun at you."

"He was pointing his gun at me so it's the reason why _I_ had my gun pointed at him."

"And because you had your gun pointed at him, that's why I threatened to hurt Bullock," She said smoothly.

"Chicken and the egg routine, here."

"Yeah, so let's agree to disagree."

"My point is," Jim said, clearing his throat, "you still had feelings for Alex. I knew that. Penguin knew it. Alex obviously thought so too. Someone kills someone who used to mean the world to you, and you don't try to avenge him right then and there? That doesn't sound anything like you."

"Alex used to mean the world to me, but Oswald does too!"

"And Alex said 'Pigeon' to hurt whom? Penguin or you?"

"I don't think he meant to hurt anyone!" Sylvia uttered confusedly.

"Why do you think that?"

"Before he died, Alex said someone told him to call me 'Pigeon'."

"So, he was baiting Penguin."

"Not intentionally—"

"And Penguin took the bait—"

"—I don't think he intended to kill him when he saw us though—"

"You know, I'm not surprised Penguin killed Alex. It was bound to happen. I'm more surprised with you."

"What? Me? What did _I_ do?" Sylvia responded indignantly.

"The man you married killed your first boyfriend, and you don't avenge him—that doesn't sound anything like you."

"It wasn't Oswald's fault, but—"

"Are you even angry about how Alex died?" Jim questioned firmly.

Sylvia detected that interrogation cop routine coming out, but she didn't stop responding to his question.

"Of course, I am! I'm enraged!"

"Yeah, but it sounds like you're not angry at Penguin—"

"—I _am_ angry—"

"—But not at him."

"Of course, I'm angry! Oswald shot Alex in front of me! That's not something I'm exactly happy about!"

Jim stood in front of her, his hands on the arms of the chair, so she sat back. Strangely, she hadn't counteracted his interrogative technique. His voice was sterner, as if he did this routine with his tougher suspects.

"Which are you angrier about: The fact that Alex died or that Oswald was the one who killed him?"

"Both!"

"Which makes you angrier though?"

"I don't know!"

"Answer now! _Don't think_!" Jim gestured quickly to her.

"Oswald shooting Alex! That makes me angrier, alright!" She said instantly.

Jim and Sylvia looked at each other, measuring the other sibling. This was an interrogation for real, it seemed. But Sylvia wasn't disgusted by it. It was actually helping her think; the way Jim demanded his answers, Sylvia wasn't threatened by him, but there was a sudden need to say whatever it was that was on her mind—and in this fashion, she felt freer to respond. It was an odd dynamic.

Jim stepped back a pace, allowing her more room to breathe, saying coolly, "Is this rage you have because Penguin killed him or do you think this is something Penguin might not have done in a million years?"

"It's not something he would have done in _front_ of me," Sylvia said faithfully. "In any other given situation, it would've been a mercy killing."

"For you or for Alex?"

"Oswald never liked Alex. He said to me that there would come a day where Alex would vex him one too many times, and he'd get rid of him. Oswald wouldn't have done that in front of me. He—"

"—He would have done it without you there." Jim noted, knowing Penguin's priority was Sylvia's general safety. "To protect you."

She agreed silently.

Jim nodded shortly, gathering that.

She looked at him uncertainly, as if she were trying to understand her own emotions around the situation. When it came to others, she could see things so clearly. When it concerned her own feelings, everything wasn't so transparent.

"Off the record," Jim emphasized lightly, "Would you like to know what I think? And this is coming from Detective Gordon's point-of-view, not your brother."

She sent him a look conveying obvious expectation.

He said seriously, "Someone manipulated Alex to say the words that would literally kill him, which would manipulate Penguin into carrying it out, and manipulate _you_ to leave Penguin—however temporary."

"Hmm."

"Perhaps all of this was a ruse to separate you two?"

"Maybe…" She nodded slowly.

"But you've thought of this once before, haven't you? On your way here, perhaps, but you were too scared and too furious to really think it through."

Sylvia continued to stare at him.

Disbelieving, she said slowly, "How do you know I was feeling all of that, that I-That you—"

"—You're my sister." Jim reminded with a fond smile. "I'd like to think I know you a little bit."

She returned his affectionate smile. Then after a few seconds, she rubbed her face as if trying to push away her exhaustion; her adrenaline rush was fading, and she was starting to crash.

"So, what are you thinking?" Jim asked gingerly, drinking from his fresh beer as he sat back down on the coffee table in front of her.

"I don't know," She admitted. "Oswald's been jealous of Alex. For a while. I didn't understand why but Alex seemed to. He told me that he felt angry and protective of me when Everett was near me. Alex suspected that Oswald felt the same way when _Alex_ was around me. He didn't want to leave Gotham, but he was going to leave because he knew what Oswald was feeling, even when I didn't."

"Ah." Jim sighed. "I see where you're going with this. You think the person who told Alex to call you 'Pigeon' knew Penguin was destabilizing."

"Yes."

"And that someone knew it would set him off."

" _Yes_."

"And what?" Jim encouraged. "You think all of this was orchestrated? That the person who told Alex to call you 'Pigeon' knew Penguin would be within ear shot and cause Penguin to hurt him?"

"Not just to hurt him, no. I think whoever told Alex to do it planned on Oswald killing him."

"Vee…"

"What?"

"What would that person gain from all of that?" Jim asked incredulously. "All of that sounds insane. What's the endgame?"

"I don't know," Sylvia confessed. "I don't know anything right now. But Oswald's been acting erratic while I've been gone. Like…neurotic. Like someone's been playing him, getting into his head—not like how Strange did before, but just, in a different way."

Jim tilted his head to the side: "What do you mean?"

"Strictly off the record?"

"Sure."

"One of my associates, one of Paddock's loyalists," Sylvia said firmly, "told me that Oswald put out hits on some of the Families, excluding mine."

"Not for the hell of it, surely."

"No, for a reason, but that reason can't even be confirmed, at least hasn't been by me."

"So, you think Penguin's been on a downward spiral since you've been gone."

"Yeah."

Jim made an expression of agreement: "I can see that. He didn't perform too well on national television. That's not like him."

"Exactly."

"And I've not seen the Mayor be the Mayor since that time; it's like he's hiding out."

"Yeah."

"That doesn't sound like Oswald either."

"Yep."

"And you left because you couldn't bear to be around him." Jim assumed, gesturing to her, understanding.

"How could I? He shot and killed Alex. Like, no, Alex and I didn't square things off when he left me, but we were making good headway. Our friendship was smoothing its course; I didn't mind being around him, and he didn't mind being my friend. And he _respected_ Oswald. And just when he does, Oswald _kills_ him." Sylvia said, her voice catching on the words. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Jim, but I can definitely see where Lee is coming from now."

"Wow, thanks for that."

"I'm just saying…"

"No, no, I get it." Jim said quietly. "So, now what?"

"I just have to be away from him for a little while."

"Actually, I think you should go home and talk to him."

Sylvia stared at him: "You're _encouraging_ me to go back home after what Oswald did to Alex?"

"I'm saying that if the same person who orchestrated Alex's demise is the same person who might be responsible behind Oswald's odd behavior, it might be for the best that he isn't left alone in a mansion by himself after having a huge fight with the only person left in his corner. They might be waiting to seize the opportunity while you're not guarding him—everyone knows you protect him with every fiber of your being."

Sylvia looked at him weirdly. Jim returned her odd expression with an understanding one as he said empathetically, "Harvey may bust my balls about how lucky Penguin is to have found someone like you, but he has a point. I also know how much you two need each other. Right now, I'm thinking that he needs you now more than ever."

She nodded pointedly, saying, "I'll consider what you say. But can I stay here with you for a couple more hours?"

"Sure. What are siblings for. I won't say 'no' to spending time with my little sister. Actually," He said embarrassingly, "I wouldn't mind the extra company."

"Aw, shucks." Sylvia half-smiled. "Feeling lonely, cowboy?"

"Loneliness, I can handle. Don't you worry about that."

"So, paranoia, then?"

Jim drank his beer for a few minutes, licking his lips after as he said coolly, "Zsasz came after me—"

"—He did?" Sylvia began to stand, but he waved her down.

"It's okay, it's okay," He recovered gently, smiling at her protective streak when it rose out of her so quickly. "He didn't get me."

"Well, obviously. If he succeeded, you'd be _dead_. Where did he attack you?"

"You're not going to believe it."

"Try me."

Jim raised an eyebrow at her dry tone.

As much love as she seemed to have for Victor Zsasz, it didn't hide her challenging response: Lark and Sylvia were two sides of the same coin. Lark was the business counterpart that came to the front lines when it concerned Penguin or Victor Zsasz. As often as he'd dealt with Lark, Jim recognized that the sister he'd been raised alongside and the one that still came to his aid was still in there, waiting to help him, waiting to come to his rescue no matter how much danger it put her in. Sylvia was Lark and Mrs. Cobblepot, but her Gordon roots were strongest.

Seeing her facial expression, a mixture of hope, protectiveness, humor, and concern, made Jim feel less alone. Even if Lee hated him now, Sylvia was always there.

"Jim?"

He startled, having become lost in his reverie only to be awakened by her voice once more. He raised his beer with indignation: "Jerome Valeska. Remember him?"

"How could I not?"

"Yeah, well, he's got a cult of followers, reciting every word he's ever said."

"A 'cult'?"

"Yeah."

"And this cult gave away your location?"

"No, but this guy we followed—Dwight—he led us to this abandoned Paramount Theater on 31st street—"

"—The one that was closed a couple years ago?"

"That's the one," Jim said dully.

"And what was this cult doing?"

"They were watching Jerome Valeska's debut on television he made before he killed Commissioner Essen."

Sylvia bit the inside of her bottom lip silently before she said compassionately, "I'm sorry."

"No, no…Don't be." He sighed deeply, drinking the last of his beer and placing it on the floor with the other. "Jerome has all these followers. Even now that he's dead, he's still influencing these people."

"Jerome was a charismatic kid." Sylvia reminded. "And his message was hedonistic, but it's an attractive lifestyle to some. If it weren't the fact that I was grounded to the earth by you and Oswald"—She smiled gratefully— "I'd have gone along with it too."

"You're _not_ serious."

"I'm serious as a shark attack."

"You'd have followed that psychopath?"

"To the ends of the earth if I'm being honest. But like I said: I'm a different person because of you."

"And Oswald," Jim reminded.

"Right…and Oswald."

They sat in silence for a minute before she cleared her throat; Sylvia looked as though she was still trying to stay mad at him for doing what he'd done, but it was becoming phenomenally clear that she was no longer mad at _Oswald_ for what he'd done; whomever had manipulated her, Oswald, and Alex to do what they'd all done was the one responsible in her eyes. She was just doing her due diligence to try and be mad at him…but she was much more transparent now than she'd ever been.

She looked at him expectantly: "So, did you happen to break up the cult's rendition or…?"

"Harvey and I tried taking Dwight in for questioning, but he escaped."

"Oh, so Harvey was with you?"

"Yeah." Jim said smoothly. "And he wasn't too happy about that either."

"Wait: Why were you guys going after some guy named Dwight? What was the issue?"

"I shouldn't tell you but—"

"—You're going to, anyway—"

"Yeah." Jim smiled when she did.

"Maybe you want to get another beer before you do?"

"I've had four already." Jim said shortly, shaking his head.

"And that's your limit?"

"Ten is my limit."

"I bet it is." Sylvia teased. She drank the rest of her vodka cocktail before getting to her feet. "You're partners with Bullock: I expected more from you. Turns out…" She languidly moved past him to the kitchen. "My brother's just a little pussy."

"Hey!" Jim pointed at her. "If it were up to me—"

"Don't let me stop you from having a good time, Slim-Jim. Here." She took two beers from the refrigerator before sitting in the armchair across from Jim, who watched her curiously.

Once she handed him the beer, he took it and pulled off the top, taking a sip after doing so before taking the top off hers as well.

"It's been a long time since we got drunk together." He cared to note.

"Yep," Sylvia mused.

"I thought you didn't like beer."

"I don't. But as all of you have been telling me: 'It's an acquired taste'."

"And it's true."

"It's true because after you drink so many, you can't taste it anymore—you're too drunk to care." Sylvia snickered, smiling smugly when Jim made a face of agreement. "Anyway: I just like my half-and-half cranberry and vodka. It tastes good, gets me drunk, and I can pretend it's good for me because of the cranberry juice."

"Is that a fact?"

"It's the trifecta. Everyone knows that."

"First time I'm hearing of it."

"Fuck you," Sylvia giggled, grinning as Jim lifted his beer; she lifted hers and they clinked bottles.

After taking a few swigs, Jim rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand, momentarily watching her. He held the bottle by the body; she held hers around its neck.

"That woman that walked out of the morgue," said Jim coolly.

"The one you talked to Fox about before Lee so delicately stormed in and, in not so dulcet tones, tried to get you arrested? _That_ dead woman?"

"Right."

"Was she really dead?"

"At one point. But her body was taken to Indian Hill."

"Great: Does this have something to do with Hugo Strange?"

"How'd you guess?" Jim said cynically, smirking when she rolled her eyes. "Dwight was on duty at the morgue when the woman walked out."

"So that's why you were following him? To see where he goes and what he does in his spare time?"

"Precisely."

"And that led you to Jerome's fanbase? Did you happen to catch his paparazzi?"

"I know you're just teasing, but you're not off base."

Sylvia rolled her shoulders, content to listen. Her currently relaxed disposition equally relaxed Jim, seeing her so lucid. It had been a long time since she was able to lower her guard around him. Another difference he'd seen between Lark and Sylvia Gordon. Likewise, he saw her as nothing more than that good ole drinking buddy he'd missed having around. The Army and the police academy seemed to have ruined that.

"After Harvey and I tried detaining Dwight, things got out of a hand," Jim confessed. "Watching—Seeing Jerome's face again, it wasn't easy. Once they realized the GCPD was there, a brawl started. Dwight escaped before we could get him; before we knew it, Victor Zsasz popped out of the clearing, started shooting at us."

"Well, _you_. Victor wasn't shooting at the both of you. He was just trying to get to you." Sylvia reminded.

"Yeah, I remember. He's professional like that."

"I hear your cynicism riling up, but you know it's true."

"You'd know the more intimate details about his methods, I imagine."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side: "Passive-aggressive, much?"

"You worked with him."

"Yeah, but you didn't have to say it like that. It's not like I want him to kill you."

"But you don't sound too upset about it."

"What do you mean!" Sylvia responded strongly, sitting forward. "I'm _really_ upset about this, Jimmy! Do you have any idea the amount of discipline and restraint I've had to maintain to keep myself out of all this?"

"What restraint?" Jim said incredulously.

"Victor's following Falcone's orders. I can't interfere: If I did, the world would suffer for it. But no one—and I do mean _no one_ —will suffer from this more than I. You're my big brother. Apart from Oswald, you're the only bit of my family I left. You're the only part of Dad that I have left. And the idea of losing you—it hurts…a _lot_."

Jim stared at her. Tears dared to fall from her glossy eyes, the way her entire body reacted when Jim assumed that she didn't care enough. She started forward to stand, but instead, she peeled herself off the armchair and hugged him, _hard_.

"I wouldn't know what to do if I'd lost you." She mumbled.

He patted her back, muttering, "I wouldn't know what to do if I'd lost you either."

When her emotions seemed to gather themselves back to order, Sylvia sat on the floor, looking up at him. For the moment, she seemed embarrassed that her feelings had gotten the best of her. Jim didn't mind, however. Seeing her get emotional over his possible death was almost…satisfying, but only because he was left with one reassurance: If Jim died today, Sylvia would mourn him.

After a moment passed, he looked at her curiously: "It's funny you said that. About how I'm the only part of Dad that's left."

"What's funny about that?" She questioned, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Well, you don't seem too fond of Dad. For all the obvious reasons, I mean."

"Dad favored you over me—no surprise there. And he took his anger out on me over Mom leaving him —No surprise there either," Sylvia said calmly, anger flickering in those eyes of hers. Their father's eyes. "But he was still our dad. And to be honest…I sometimes miss him."

"Me too. You know who I also miss?"

"Who?"

"Mom."

"Mom can suck on a lead pipe for all I care." Sylvia muttered resentfully. "She left us when we were younger, and she didn't care about us. I don't try to think about that."

"I do."

"What?"

"Not about that, but I try to remember what she looks like," Jim said quietly. He smiled more to himself than to anyone. "But the more I try to remember what she looks like, I just can't."

"She had red hair—" Sylvia began to list out all her physical traits, but Jim stopped her.

"I'm saying that I can remember Dad really well. So well, that I can look at the mirror and I can picture him saying something—anything—to get me back to where I need to be. But when I try to remember Mom, I can't remember what she looks like. Anytime I think of her, I just imagine…"

Sylvia heard how he was trying to get the words out. She stood on her knees.

"What?" She encouraged.

"Well," Jim said awkwardly. "I think of you."

She blinked, staring at him: "You're fucking with me."

"No. I'm really not. I can barely remember what our mother looks like, because whenever I think of Mom, I just see your face."

"That's weird."

"Not really. You were more of a mother to me than she was…throughout her absence, and onward." Jim admitted with a smaller smile. "Dad tried protecting me from what Gotham was really like. You didn't start telling me what it was really like until I came back from the Army."

"You wouldn't have listened," Sylvia said cryptically.

"Or you wanted to protect me just like Dad did."

"Or—again—you wouldn't have listened."

"I might have."

Sylvia giggled, "You're an idiot."

"Even now, you're still trying to protect me."

"I'm trying to protect myself—from your corny, lovey dovey, wishy washy, drunken emotions." She crossed her forefingers in the form of a 't', whispering, "Get back! Get back! The Lord Christ compels you!"

Jim laughed heartily at her tease. They took another drink, and Sylvia looked at him; her expression was soft.

"For such a stone-cold Detective, you're pretty funny."

He returned, "And you're soft for someone whose reputation is Penguin's enforcer."

"I am _not_ soft!" She poked her own chest. "I'm **snuggly**. There's a difference."

"Is there, really?"

"Hey, Oswald likes my snuggles. I can't see why you wouldn't."

"Right, right…"

"Lee might cozy up to you too if you show her your snuggly side again."

"Right." He got quiet for a second before he said hesitantly, "Speaking of Lee. Let me you ask you this question, seeing as you can understand Lee's position…"

Sylvia peered at him inquisitively but nodded.

Jim shrugged his shoulders back uncomfortably and he said softly, "Do you still love Oswald? Despite what he's done to Alex?"

She sadly smiled, saying, "There's nothing that man could do that would ever make me stop loving him."

"Despite what he's done?"

"I told him that myself. I'll be honest. It scares me. But I still love him. And I'm not a fool enough, or whatever, to deny that."

"So, do you think Lee…?"

"I think she still loves you despite what you did to Mario. I just don't think she's ready to accept that. But in time, she will. And when she does, she'll come back to you."

Jim smiled a little: "Thanks, Vee."

"What are siblings for. This is a heavy conversation. So…" She gestured outside. "Do you wanna maybe walk this off? I think it stopped raining."

He considered how much they'd drank. Standing up, he didn't feel like he was too drunk. He calculated the odds of meeting Zsasz on the street or getting arrested for walking under the influence as being high. Still…

"Come on, Jimmy…" Sylvia prompted. "You're a Detective. I'm the Mayor's Wife. For all anyone else knows, we're just two homely citizens, taking a walk at nine o'clock at night, enjoying the weather riptides of Gotham and all she wants to give us. If the police come, you talk us out of it."

"And if Zsasz pops up?"

Sylvia clicked her tongue, "We'll figure something out."

"I don't know if I buy that, but a walk sounds pretty good right now." Jim said contentedly.

He stood, gathering his keys in his leather jacket. Sylvia maneuvered the hem of the plaid shirt to tie around her mid-section, so she wore this, Vale's leggings, and her flats. He offered for her to go first, and he closed and locked the door on the way out.


	87. At All Costs

Chapter Eighty-Seven: At All Costs

* * *

Sylvia and Jim walked along the sidewalks of Gotham city. There was a soothing calm to the fact that the traffic nearly came to a standstill. People working the evening shift had already headed home; night-shifters were already pulling up to their workplace, parking their cars. Aside from the cabs and taxis winding around the curbs and the trucks that came to clean the streets, there weren't many others around them.

While they walked, Jim kept his hands in his pockets; a gun toted in the right one in any case Victor made an unexpected appearance. Meanwhile, Sylvia strolled beside him, admiring the dampness of the pavement and puddles that pooled on the sidewalks from what seemed like a monsoon that had laid itself upon the city less than an hour ago.

Observing the damage done to a particular sign which was bent in half on its equally steel pole, Sylvia let out a breathy laugh through her nose, saying, "Stop sign's broken. I guess people aren't gonna be stopping as often as you'd like, huh, Detective?"

"Do they ever?" Jim returned, smirking when she imitated the sound of a police siren. "Do you get a lot of enjoyment out of mocking my job?"

"Oh, don't be a sour puss. I know you get enjoyment out of mine."

"I don't, really."

Sylvia turned so she walked backwards, eyeing him: "No enjoyment whatsoever? You don't go to the station and have your police buddies make fun of what I'd be able to do with handcuffs?"

Jim lifted his chin and tilted his head to the right, stating pointedly, "I try not to be around for that type of conversation. They talk about you enough while I'm there."

"All bad things I guess, me being married to Oswald and all?"

"No."

Sylvia stopped walking backwards, startled: "What do you mean 'no'?"

Jim walked past her, so she strolled by his stride. Congenially, she linked her arm around his elbow, a pep in her step. He grinned at her bounciness.

"Are they hostile? Do they poke fun?" She guessed.

"They like you." Jim confessed, looking up at the night sky.

For once, the clouds had parted, if only for a moment, to grant the city's citizens a glimpse of the half-moon shining down; the stars, a fluorescent twinkling of what was clearly a perfect night for the average star-gazer.

"Ahh," Sylvia drawled. "Well, I can't say I blame them." She pinched his arm. "What's not to like?"

"I meant, they like what you've done so far."

"As the First Lady of Gotham?"

"Yes, but just in general."

"So, your friends like me as Lark, huh?"

"As Lark, no. But they don't seem to mind you being a part of the Crime Families."

"So, they like Donna Gordon, but they don't like Lark? How does that follow?" Sylvia said curiously.

"I'll tell you, but you can't get mad."

"Ooh, this is gonna be good. Confess the truth, Detective Gordon. You have my attention."

"Your playful mood is very reassuring." Jim said coolly, but he cracked a grin because of it. "The officers and detectives, even Harvey, have said that you seem to work a good balance between order and crime."

"As compared to whom?"

"They say you could be great at maintaining a balance as well as Falcone." Jim uttered, although he clearly had mixed feelings about his sister being positively compared to Don Falcone for all the obvious reasons. "You take charge when needed but try to let everyone else work out their scraps, and they govern themselves; if I didn't hear better, they like you more than Penguin because of it."

Her arm un-linked from his, falling to her side as she placed distance between them.

"I'm not better than Oswald," She said softly.

Was it an admission of weakness or modesty on her part? Jim looked at her interestedly. He thought she would have been flattered, but what appeared on her face was almost remorse.

They stood in front of a jewelry pawn shop; Jim leaned against the glass window.

"He's better at the whole 'crime lord' thing."

"I don't think that's true." Jim relinquished humbly.

"Well, it is."

"You can run the city by yourself."

"Of course, I can. I have no doubt in my ability to do it." Sylvia said smoothly, crossing her arms over her chest. "The Commissioner respects me; the Families—for the most part, excluding Anderson—know they can come to me for anything and if the circumstances are adequate, I'm happy to accommodate. My workers know I'll protect them as I know they will protect me. And my brother is a Detective in the GCPD. I have no doubt in my ability that I could run this city well, both as its First Lady as well as the Underworld's Queen."

Jim frowned: "Care I ask then: Why don't you?"

"It's not that I can't. It's just that I won't."

"Why not?"

"Because this is Oswald's world." Sylvia said gently with an affectionate smile as she gesticulated around them for reference. "This is his ambition, his desire; the Underworld is his palace and he is the King."

"So, what do you get out of it, though?" Jim asked confusedly. "You clearly don't want any part of it. So why do you put up with everything if you don't have to?"

"The Underworld is Oswald's world. And everything Oswald is, I am too. Just as everything you are, Jimmy—whether that's Bounty Hunter, Outlaw, or Detective Gordon—I am as well."

"Even if I get on your nerves? Even after Penguin shot Alex?"

"When you love someone, you don't just love the good things about them. You gotta accept the less attractive things too." Sylvia said lovingly, smiling at him.

Jim smiled at her with reluctant admiration. There was a wisdom and devotion in her that not even he or Oswald could—or would—ever fully comprehend.

"All of that may be true, but for what it's worth: You're a better leader than him. I can't speak for everyone at the GCPD, but I can see that you treat your people a lot better than Penguin's treated his. Maybe that's why it was so easy for his subordinates to turn on him." Jim offered freely.

Sylvia looked at him sharply, as if she might inflict harm on him for his slander but instead, something else flickered in her eyes. Jim saw them lift above his shoulder to the glass; instantly, her hand grabbed his shoulder and brought him down to the ground with her.

Just as they hit the sidewalk, a gunshot rang in the cool night air, piercing the glass window behind Jim.

"What—" Jim started.

"It's Victor—MOVE!" Sylvia shouted.

She pulled him up by the shoulder of his jacket. They sprinted around the corner. From behind them, a slew of bullets hit the sidewalks, street signs, and cars—shattered glass and gunfire.

"We have to find shelter!" Jim yelled.

"We're near my club, let's go—"

"—That's exactly where he thinks we would go—"

"—I know!" Sylvia panted. "It's bait! I have weapons there, though."

She and Jim dodged another slew of bullets. From the sound and timing of the gunfire, only Victor was following them, none of the other lackeys that typically accompanied him on these manhunts.

Behind the wall. _Dut, dut, dut, dut, dut._ Behind the car. _Dut, dut, dut_!

Sylvia huffed, "He's not even trying!"

Jim grabbed her arm and shoved her back down behind the car; the side mirror flung off, missing her head by centimeters. They both glanced at the mirror pointedly, then at each other.

"He's not after you," Jim said quickly. "He's after me! I can draw his fire away—you get home _now_!"

"I'm not leaving you to get killed!"

"What happened to all that Falcone and war business—"

" _Fuck_ Falcone!"

Sylvia grabbed Jim's forearm and they sprinted a block, dodging through alleys, skidding beside cars to avoid the artillery of what seemed like an assault rifle. In three more blocks, Sylvia pushed them through the front door of _Lean on Vee's_ and barricaded it; she and Jim lifted tables and pushed it against the door itself as well as the windows.

"You don't have to do this," Jim protested, watching her stride behind her bar.

"I learned this trick from Barbara," Sylvia said, ignoring him. She ran her hand underneath the counter, pressing a button. As she did, a shelf fell from its mechanics to reveal a stock pile of five hand guns. "Smart woman, actually: If you'd married her, I wouldn't have been disappointed."

"Vee!"

"What? I'm just saying. Here." She tossed him a Glock.

"Vee, you need to get out of here! I can handle this myself!"

She sent him a look: "Didn't we just have this conversation? I said I'm not leaving you!"

An array of bullets chipped through the front door then through the table relentlessly. Then it stopped. Victor's voice could be heard (muffled) through the door.

"Lark! I'm not after you. I'm here for James Gordon—"

"—I know!"

"What happened to our discussion beforehand!"

"Consider it 'Null and Void'!" Sylvia barked.

Jim glanced at her as they were squatted behind the bar counter. Her neck and jaw torqued as she responded.

Victor paused and he said loudly, "You can't protect him, Liv. He's on the contract. _You_ are not. You can walk out of here right now."

Jim looked at her, pleading. Hoping she'd take the way out. Sylvia licked her lips and closed her eyes, muttering something. She lifted her head over the counter.

"Do what you gotta do!"

"He's on the _contract_. He killed Don Falcone's son. He will not tolerate third party interference—"

"—And I will not stand by and let that man destroy half of my fucking family, Victor, so you come in and do your job! And I'll do mine!"

There was hesitation. But he opened fire, splintering the rest of the door open and through the table that barricaded it. When Victor busted the door open, he dropped the AR-15, reached into his holsters, and pulled out his two loyal Glocks, pointing them towards the bar.

"Last chance, Liv. Normally, you'd be dead right now." Victor warned. "You were the best student I ever had, and you've become one of my best friends. Do _not_ make me kill you."

Sylvia looked at Jim, who watched her uncertainly.

She tilted her head, indicating the escape hatch that was beneath their feet. It led to a basement which would grant him secret passage underneath and to the alley behind the bar. He began to utter a word of protest, but she mouthed, ' _Go_ ', nodding her head, reassuring that she would be fine.

He quickly hugged her before opening the hatch and jumping through. Sylvia stood, holding a Glock in her hand; she stomped down on the hatch, breaking the handle, sealing the entrance.

Victor frowned.

"What happened to your talk about the city's peace and honoring Falcone's justification to kill him?" He said monotonously.

"Falcone didn't start caring about his family until he stopped being a crime lord," Sylvia said unsteadily, her body shaking. "I've cared about mine… _much_ longer. If anyone deserves the right to honor a justification for fighting back, it's _me_. So, yeah. I'm interfering. And I know what happens to people who interfere with Falcone's orders. So, if you must shoot me, _shoot_ me. But you're not going to kill my brother."

"You know me, Liv. I don't try. And I always complete the mission. And I will do that tonight. Even if I have to go through you first."

Sylvia cocked her gun. Victor glanced at her forefinger as it rested on the trigger. Even as she did, her hand trembled.

"I'm faster than you." He reminded.

"Yeah."

"And I can shoot a lot better."

"Yeah. I know that too." Sylvia whispered.

"And you still want to do this?"

"I guess that's what it's looking like, huh."

Victor's frown deepened. He said through gritted teeth, "Don't. Make me. Do this."

He put his forefingers on the triggers of his weapons.

Sylvia held her breath.

Just as he was ready to do what needed to be done, Jim flew himself through the door and tackled Victor to the ground. Gunfire hit the bar counter and a few tables as Jim wrestled the Glocks out of the hitman's grasp; both men grunting and straining, trying to get the upper hand.

Victor was quick. Jim was quicker. But Sylvia was an opportunist. As soon as Jim had tackled Victor, she scaled over the bar counter and grabbed the two Glocks from within Victor's reach, kicking them across the club.

He was good at shooting, but Victor wasn't too bad at hand-to-hand combat. His determination could break through a tank if given enough tenacity. Three kicks and a headbutt later, Jim was down on the ground with a groan, dazed and disoriented.

"Oh, shit! Jimmy—Are you—" Sylvia didn't have the time to ask as she pushed his body towards the door, chucking him out as Victor stumbled towards his weapons.

Just as soon as he grabbed one, Sylvia was on his back, climbing; her legs wrapped around his neck; he fell to the ground and pushed her off, using her weight against her.

"Get out of my way!" Victor grunted.

"Not a chance!" She hopped on him again, this time wrapping her legs around his chest and her arms around his neck, putting him in a choke hold just as Mr. Bell had trained her to do.

"All it takes is one shot—ugh!" He gulped.

He waved his arms, trying to aim at her head. Her legs kept both pinned around his midriff.

"Yeah, but you gotta be awake to do it!"

"Get off!"

"Stop going after my brother, and I will!"

"—He's on the contr—Aggh!" Her legs pressed harder against his chest; her arms, tightening around his neck.

It was getting harder for him to breathe.

Last ditch effort, he slung forward, smashing his body against the bar. She lost balance and was shoved over the counter.

"You're out of shape."

Victor held the gun, pointing it at her. Even as he said it, he tried to catch his breath.

She held her gun as she stood to her feet, pointing it at him.

"I may be out of shape," She panted, "but it doesn't take any physical energy to pull a trigger."

Although his resolve was piqued, Victor was breathless and exhausted. He'd take a shoot-out with her any day of the month: wrestling with Sylvia was like trying to wrestle an animal that was a half-monkey, half-boa constrictor hybrid that had the ferocity of a rhino.

A two-second hesitation followed before Victor smacked her over the head with the gun, disorientating her. She fell to the floor with a painful grunt.

"Like I said: If you were anyone else..." He swore, rubbing his neck with a wince. He'd have a nice mark there for a couple days, no doubt.

He moved towards the door where Jim had been noticeably pushed out before Sylvia had made herself a decoy.

When he looked around, he couldn't find him.

He came back inside, surveying his surroundings. There was no sign that Jim was here, but there was no sign that he had gone either.

"You're still here, aren't you, Jim?" Victor uttered coolly. "I know you are…"

Sylvia groaned from her place on the floor, bringing a hand to her head. Slowly, she opened her eyes, seeing Victor pace around with a steady gait, as if he knew where Jim was hiding.

She rubbed her head; when she withdrew her hand, there was blood.

"Asshole," She hissed.

Getting to her feet, she climbed to the counter stealthily. When Victor faced her direction, she leapt towards him once more, grabbing on his shoulders and pulling him down.

Once he was on his stomach, Sylvia caught the hand that held the gun and bent it back so Victor grunted, releasing it immediately; but she'd been so concerned with one, she hadn't given due diligence to the other; in direct contact, his elbow jutted back and caught her mouth.

With this advantage, Victor whipped around and caught her throat, pinning her down on the floor. He straddled her waist, keeping her still as he threatened to choke her where she lain.

"Not so close, Jim."

Sylvia froze, grabbing onto Victor's wrist, glancing down to see Jim coming back through the door. His stride stuttered to a halt when he saw the compromising position in which his sister was placed.

Victor's other hand pointed the Glock in his direction.

"Zsasz, let her go!" Jim demanded worriedly.

"Jim, run!" Sylvia gasped.

"You've got a decision to make now," Victor said calmly, ignoring both of their pleas. "Do you let your sister die before you? Or…do you convince her to leave here, and you die anyway? Either way you're gone, but at least _she_ " (He tightened his grip on Sylvia's throat harder to prove a point so she whimpered) "will live another day."

Jim stepped forward.

"Ah, ah." Victor tilted his gun left and right, adding, "That's close enough."

"You said so yourself, Zsasz." Jim said breathlessly. "She's not on the contract. I am."

"Well, she violated the peaceful clause that Don Falcone had set in motion, so—"

"—She's your friend—"

"—She and I have an understanding. And we're more than just friends. Aren't we, Liv?" Victor glanced down at her; a flicker of emotion passed through the apathy that typically accommodated his manhunts. "Office marriages, right? I guess we got hitched too young."

"I want…a divorce!" Sylvia strained.

Her face was turning pink; her veins were starting to throb: one along her forehead; the other, in her neck.

"I like your sister," He admitted, smiling a little at her response. "She understands me more than anyone, to be honest."

"Let her go. Please." Jim uttered quietly.

"But this isn't personal," Victor continued, glancing over his shoulder at him. "This is business. And business comes first, Jim. I don't want to kill her any more than _you_ do. So, tell her to calm down, stay put, and I will happily let her go. If not, I will—despite how much I do not want to—kill her right now."

Jim didn't think twice about it. He opened his mouth to agree to those terms. However, a different voice responded instead.

" _Go home, Victor._ "

Sylvia, Victor, and Jim averted their gaze to Carmine Falcone who sauntered through the open door with a cold gaze.

"The hit's been called off," He said, glancing at their current disposition with both amusement and distaste. "You can go home now."

Victor stood, relinquishing his grip on Sylvia's throat (she started gagging) as well as lowering his weapon: "Alrighty. See you later, Boss."

As he walked away, he stopped and glanced back at Sylvia: "No hard feelings, Liv?"

She sat up, rubbing her neck, and waved him away. He grinned and walked out of the door Falcone had entered. After a moment, Jim breathed a sigh of relief before stepping over to her, offering a hand; she took it and pulled herself up.

"This isn't for you," Falcone said coldly, glaring at Jim. "And it most certainly wasn't done for my benefit. If it were up to me, you'd be dead."

Jim nodded. He understood, even though the reason behind the sudden call-off was cryptic. Falcone approached Sylvia, looking at her directly in the eyes. She returned the same hard gaze.

"You knew I would go after your brother. You knew you were not on the contract. And yet you still interfered."

He sounded equally resentful and disappointed.

"I'm sorry for what happened to your son," Sylvia said hoarsely. "But you should know by now that there is nothing in this world that will stop me from protecting my own family. Just as I know there is nothing in this world that will stop you from protecting yours."

"Yes. You're right." Falcone lifted his hand to her face.

Jim flinched, ready to defend her if the retired Don became violent, but instead, Falcone placed a lock of abandoned hair behind Sylvia's ear. It was a gentle gesture, but Sylvia perceived it as nothing more than the calm before the storm. An idle threat.

"I will do anything to protect my family. Even after I'm gone." Falcone whispered. His admirable gaze faltered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You have such raw power and strength within you the likes of which anyone could scarcely imagine. I'd hate for that to be erased due to a simple miscalculation on your part."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Sylvia breathed.

"If you really want to know, you need only ask your husband." He smiled knowingly. "We have a truce. It's the only reason why _you_ are still alive as we speak. Especially since you went back on your word that you would not intervene."

He turned to walk away, pausing at the entrance.

"You might want to get that door fixed." He said politely. "I'd recommend oak: it's costly, but when polished, it gives anything a glimmer of exquisite taste." (He touched the door frame.) "Sturdier too. Have a good night, Lark."

Jim and Sylvia glanced at each other once he'd gone. They lied down on the ground, exhausted.

"I think I'll go home now and have a heart attack." She muttered, although she hadn't moved an inch to do so.

"I think I'll finish off that case of beer in the fridge."

"Good plan. Thanks for the drinks…" She stood up, looking down at him. "Aren't you going to get up?"

Jim nodded, getting to his feet. He looked around, noticing the damage: "That's gonna take a lot of money to repair."

"I'll take repairing a club over planning my brother's funeral any day of the week."

He grinned at her sincerity and he hugged her. She returned the hug warmly.

"Glad to see you got out of another assassination attempt," Sylvia muttered, patting his shoulder.

They closed the door to the club after shuffling a table in front of the entrance. She'd be calling in for another door the following day: Expedited. He walked her to the car and Sylvia thanked him for opening the driver's door as she sat in it.

"Are you going to be okay?" He asked plainly.

"Yeah. I think I'll go home and talk to Oswald. Do you mind keeping me in the loop about Jerome's fan club? If something happens—"

"—I'll let you know."

Sylvia closed the door after thanking him. She started the car. Just as she was about to pull out, Jim knocked on the glass window. Curiously, she rolled down the window, peering at him with a small smile.

"Do you still remember that address, the one for Everett," Jim said firmly.

"Mm-hmm."

"Give it to me."

"Sure." She listed it off with little hesitation. "Why do you need it?"

"Well, his Uncle Fredo is serving undeserved time at Black Gate," Jim said, crossing his arms. "I think it's about time that the real criminal served his time. You said Fredo was the decoy."

"Yep. But good luck on getting Everett to admit it as openly again. I guess you could always get Bullock and do your 'good cop, bad cop' routine on him. I imagine you'd like to be the good cop?"

Jim said seriously, "Not for this one, no. I'm almost looking forward to it."

"Well, if you need character witnesses…" She held up a hand. "I'll happily recount what a douche bag he was before and now."

"Good to know." He leaned forward through the open window and kissed her forehead. "See you later, Vee. Love you."

"Ditto, dude."

* * *

Author's Note: Oswald will appear in the next chapter. Not to fear! know you miss him just as much as I do :P


	88. Frogs and Princes

Chapter Eighty-Eight: Frogs and Princes

Author's Note: There's anal play and pegging in this chapter so be forewarned

* * *

Parked in front of the Van Dahl Mansion, nearest to the woods rather than in the driveway, was a black car. It had been sitting there for only ten minutes. Barbara Kean was its driver; in the passenger seat sat Tabitha, who consciously rubbed the wrist of the hand that Nygma had only recently chopped off. Butch Gilzean sat in the back; his ankles were crossed lazily on the floorboard.

He gave the women an idle glance each, before he leaned forward, an elbow placed on each of the headrests.

"Why are we _here_?" He asked distractedly. "I don't mind a good ole stakeout, but all we are doing is wasting time."

"You see those lights?" said Barbara casually, giving him a once-over although she, too, seemed bored.

Butch looked through the windshield, noting that the lights in the Van Dahl mansion (as Barbara mentioned) were still on: "Yeah."

"That means Ozzie's still burning the midnight oil."

"If we wait around here any longer, we'll be doing that too, you know. What are we waiting for anyway? I thought once Nygma gave the word that he was kidnapped, Penguin was going to find him. Nygma was supposed to ambush him, then kill him."

"He was." Barbara said coolly, glancing at him. "But plans change."

"They changed? When?"

"Bout a day ago," Barbara replied, slightly annoyed.

"So, he's going to kill him here? Are we—what—some sort of backup?"

"Of course not. _We're_ going to get Penguin."

"Sorry?" Butch said confusedly. "What do you mean _we_ are? I thought—?"

Barbara glanced at Tabitha and Butch as if they were impatient children and said calmly, "We're going to kidnap him once he's asleep—he's less hostile that way—and then bring him back to our club. We'll give him a nice talking-to, make him surrender his empire to us. Then, Ed will do what he must do, and then be on his way to kill him as he sees fit."

"So that whole Nygma-being-kidnapped-farce-to-lead-Penguin-to-the-bridge, that's not happening anymore?" Butch inquired irritably. "I thought that was the plan."

"Well, as of now, it's not."

Tabitha frowned: "And you didn't think to tell us that?"

Barbara said gently, "I knew that Ed changing his plans again would irritate the both of you, so I thought it was best not to include you two in it. If that was wrong, then sue me."

"I'm not mad about that, I'm just mad that you didn't keep us included either way." Tabitha said curtly.

"Considering the fact that you and Butch over in the backseat are constantly plotting headway to get rid of the only guy who seems to be pulling his weight on weakening Penguin, I didn't think it was important to tell either of you that Ed changed his mind about the bridge."

Butch said as a footnote, "Tabby's killed all of the Heads of the Crime Families. I think that counts for something."

"All the Heads except for one." Barbara reminded.

"I'd be more than happy to finish the job," Tabitha muttered, scowling. "If you would just let me kill her. Your 'Don't kill Lark' rule is probably one of the most—"

"—I _like_ her, okay? Besides, Nygma says she's integral after Penguin dies."

"All her guards—the Kabuki Twins, even Gabriel—have left." Butch uttered, frankly. "I don't know how 'integral' she can really be after what Penguin did to Alex."

"Even after Penguin's gone, she'll still feel responsible to protect whoever's left of the Five Families," Barbara explained coolly. "It's just her nature. They don't call her 'Mother Hen' for nothing. That's what makes her integral. See that now?"

"We can kill anyone that's left." Tabitha reminded. "They're lower end, anyway."

"Can't have a kingdom without servants, sweetie. And Nygma mentioned once before: If we killed Lark, that'd just make her a martyr. Even for the people who don't like her, they know what she stands for—not to mention, we'd have half of Gotham, all of the GCPD, and the Mainland crows busting down our door to seek their pound of flesh. I'd rather that not happen. Plus…it'll be nice to have a barrier." Barbara uttered sweetly. "If she supports me, then I'll have the support of everyone who was in the Five Families, the Docks, _and_ the Mainland, all because of Lark's network. It's a nice thought."

Tabitha said quietly, "You mean if she supports _us_."

Barbara leaned over and kissed her cheek: "Of course, that's what I meant."

"And what makes you think after Penguin's dead that she'll just do whatever you say?" asked Butch. "I've known her since Fish hired her. She doesn't bow easily to anyone. It's hard to earn her loyalty."

"Not if you already have it." Barbara drawled.

Tabitha sulked: "What is that supposed to mean? When she finds out we helped kill Penguin, she's going to think you're a traitor. Your loyalty—or whatever—will mean nothing to her. I can't stand her any more than she can't stand me, but she's not exactly _easy._ "

"I have a good feeling about her." Barbara insisted.

"That stabbing kind or the warm kind?" Butch half-joked.

"Maybe both. I mean, we kissed a couple of times."

"Yeah, I remember." Tabitha muttered.

"No, no," Barbara said slyly. "You weren't there for the last time we kissed. It was nice. I almost got her too." She smiled fondly. "I think she's just too afraid to admit that she likes-likes me."

"And you think by getting her to 'like-like' you again, she won't punish you for conspiring to kill Penguin?" Butch uttered incredulously. "I know Sylvia. She's not going to forgive this."

"I've known her longer than either of you! I _know_ what I'm talking about."

"If you say so," Butch said under his breath.

"When all is said and done, Lark will oversee what's left of the rabble," Barbara stated as if she hadn't heard Butch, "Well, what used to be the Five Families. With Anderson, Maroni, Dray, and Belich dead—not to mention Isaac Paddock keeled over recently—all their people will turn to Lark for protection and guidance since she's the only one left. And she will be working for _me_."

"For **us**." Tabitha said irritably.

"Right." Barbara nodded.

"If you can't lull in her loyalty when you flash your goods," said Butch ironically, "what's Plan B?"

Tabitha offered, "We can always threaten her."

"She lifted me off the ground, over her head, and threw me into a wall, baby. And I hear she went hand-to-hand with Zsasz, _against_ Falcone's orders, to save her brother. What do you think she's prepared to do to avenge Penguin?"

"I still say we try threatening her. She's one woman. We're three against one. Add Nygma's sacrificial life to the bunch, we might have enough leverage. She likes him, right?"

"If you threaten her," Butch said sketchily, "She won't agree to anything you say."

"If you find the right feed, the songbirds will come. Lark is no different. After Penguin is gone," Barbara said with a hint of sympathy, "She will need some tender loving care, even a shoulder to cry on. And that's where our alliance will be established."

"Is this to get back at me because I'm with Butch now?" Tabitha questioned. "Someone sounds a little jealous."

"Seeing as you and Butch back there have been locking lips for the past few months, I thought I'd get a little TLC myself."

Tabitha glared: "You plan to get her support by _fucking_ her?"

"Wow. _Now_ who sounds jealous. Besides, why do _you_ care? You're with Butch now. Remember?"

Butch interrupted the two of them, saying, "How does Nygma know that Sylvia isn't going to come back? All of us have seen her and Penguin together. They're a pair of teenagers in love: You can't keep them separated, no matter what you do! They're married for god's sake."

"The way he made it sound, Lark won't forgive Penguin for what he did. And I agree with him. Honestly, if I were married to Ozzie and he shot _Jim_ , I doubt I'd be ready to come home. It's just something you don't do." Barbara mused.

Butch asked arbitrarily, "What did Nygma do to get Penguin to shoot Alex anyway?"

"To my knowledge, it was a trick. He told Alex to call her 'Pigeon' when it was the right time."

"The right time being… _In front of_ Penguin?" Butch said incredulously.

Tabitha raised an eyebrow: "Yeesh."

"Yep," Barbara sighed contentedly.

She let out a deeper exhale of satisfaction. Oswald's shadow moved around the room behind the blinds before it seemingly crawled into bed; the only light in the master bedroom turned off, leaving the mansion in darkness.

A broad smile creased her lips.

"Nygma did his job," said Barbara, obviously pleased. "Lark unwittingly did hers by leaving Ozzie _all_ alone. Once he's asleep, we'll wait a few minutes and then we'll do ours. So, smile, honey. His empire is as good as ours."

"Huh."

Barbara grinned slyly at Tabitha's lack of enthusiasm: "I know how much you despise him, but you might want to put a little more stock in Nygma's strategy. He predicted Penguin and Lark's path towards a crippling marriage down to the very chink—even knew what would drive her away. Pretty smart if you ask me."

Tabitha's frown deepened, her head tilting forward as she said, "You might want to reconsider that. Look who's pulling into the driveway."

Butch gasped, "You've _got_ to be fucking kidding me."

They watched Sylvia's car pull up in front of the mansion. Coarsely, she got out of the car, shutting her door. For a moment, Barbara felt the need to slink down in her seat in any case they were found as Sylvia observed her surroundings—perhaps from her paranoia or it was partly due to the time she'd spent with her brother—before she headed into the mansion.

"I thought she _left_ him." Tabitha hissed.

Butch tapped the headrests nervously, "I thought he said she wasn't coming back!"

Barbara bit the inside of her cheek. Was it possible that Nygma had underestimated Sylvia's devotion to Penguin?

"We'll wait." Barbara decided. "For all we know, she just came back to get her things and leave him for good. If that's the case, this might be easier than we thought."

"Or Nygma's gonna have to change his plans again. I doubt he knows her as well as he thinks he does." Tabitha said coldly. "Either way, if he does change his strategy, I hope you'll keep Butch and me more in the loop. Seeing as we're in this _together_."

Barbara side-glanced her, hearing the passive-aggressive tone but she remained comfortably seated, waiting. Patient.

* * *

Sylvia closed and locked the front door of the mansion.

"Jack? Joel?" She called as she walked throughout kitchen, turning on the light as she entered the room. "Gabe?"

No one answered her. She turned off the kitchen light, momentarily stumbling into the living room. When the living room light flicked on, her gaze went straight to the blood stain on the carpet nearest to the fireplace: it was the exact spot that Alex had fallen and died after he'd been shot twice. Her feet were like crates of marble, sluggishly moving and heavy as Sylvia stooped, touching the carpet with a mixture of sadness, guilt, and anger.

This time around, the anger wasn't so much directed at Oswald anymore. It was towards whomever was responsible for setting all of this in motion.

The smell of carpet cleaner and bleach was most acrid here. With Alex's body removed, she wondered where it was now. Did Oswald bury him in the back of the woods in the same plot that became the resting place for the rest of his dead stepmother? Was he cremated? Were his ashes sprinkled in the front yard? Undoubtedly, he'd left Olga to take care of the blood; most of the stain was faded or completely lifted from the couch and furniture surrounding it. She had a gift for getting rid of stains—at least making them almost invisible.

"I'm sorry, Alex." She whispered, kissing the pad of her fingers, and placing them to the carpet in loving memory.

After a moment, she stood and headed up the stairs.

Gabe and the twins were nowhere to be found. Maybe they'd assumed that Sylvia was going to be gone for a while. Seeing as their loyalty was more tied to her than to Oswald, they would have vacated the mansion with little reason to stay behind. Before going into her and Oswald's bedroom, she stepped in the room across from it.

Carefully, she cracked the door open and whispered, "Charleen? Charlie, are you in here? Sweetheart?"

When no one responded to her, Sylvia opened the door wider, moving inside. The bed was neatly made, clothes strewn out along the floor. A single piece of paper was laid out in the center. Sylvia turned on the light before she entered completely, taking the note, and sitting on the bed. It was in Charleen's neat, bubbly handwriting.

It read:

 _Pretend Mom and Pretend Dad,_

 _Going to the Flea to square things up with a few acquaintances from the past. I can't live here when I still have unfinished business. I'll come back when it's over. Don't come looking for me._

 _Love,_

 _Charlie xoxo_

 _P.S. Pretend Mom, I took one of your guns from your safe in the closet. Try to use a different code other than your wedding anniversary. That shit's easy to figure out._

Sylvia sighed, placing the note back on the bed. Well, at least she didn't have to worry about Charleen being hurt if she was carrying around a gun at the Flea. She gave the room a quick glance before she left, closing the door.

Across the hall, she opened their bedroom door a crack as she'd done with Charleen's. Silently, she moved inside. Oswald was in bed, looking like he might be asleep. Once she laid eyes on him, Sylvia had expected to feel instant rage as she'd experienced after realizing he'd executed Alex in front of her.

She was a little surprised to feel an inexplicable array of love for him, and an underappreciated amount of empathy. In her time of loving Oswald, Sylvia understood there was more to him than just being angry and vengeful; there was jealousy, insecurity, and a range of emotions that always seemed to control him at one point or another, but not all of them were so negative. Happiness, love, excitement, and adoration were a part of him too. While his jealousy might've gone unchecked and brought about the worst-case scenario to happen, could Sylvia fault him for feeling this way?

Wouldn't _she_ have reacted the same way if she'd seen Oswald and a former lover in a mansion alone? Sylvia knew herself enough to know that she was just as jealous as he—if not more. Not only would she have shot the hypothetical former lover, she might've gone a step further and tortured them.

Right now, he had no one: The mayoral campaign was in pieces. His subordinates—at least those who were left—were too uncertain of his motives to claim loyalty, and too afraid to claim betrayal. Ed Nygma was kidnapped (if that were true) or, at best, not coming back because of his confusing feelings he had for Oswald and Isabella.

Jim was right. She was the only one in Oswald's corner.

'For better, for worse…For richer, for poorer…'

 _Even if your future husband executes the first love of your life, do you vow…_ Sylvia smiled inwardly, entertaining this muse with a darker sense of humor than she cared to admit.

 _Bet the priest didn't expect those vows to withstand even these circumstances._

Just as she'd come in, she slowly moved onto the bed. Her hand fell on Oswald's leg, rubbing it gently to make her presence known. Once the bed shifted with her weight, Oswald suddenly moved.

Instantly, she was on her back, the end of a gun pressed up against the bottom of her chin.

"Wait, wait!"

" _Sylvia_?" He said her name in disbelief.

"Yeah, it's me…"

He lowered the gun and moved it to the nightstand. The lamp was turned on, and he placed the gun on the table, looking at her. It was only then that she got a good look at him. Oswald had never looked more wrought with worry, regret, and unease. With closer observation, his eyes were red and puffy. It looked as if he'd been crying. He appeared to be dressed for bed; whether he was actually going to fall asleep was something entirely different.

"What are you doing here?" He asked uncertainly, glancing her up and down. "And what are you wearing?"

"Oh, Jim gave me these," She gestured to her leggings and flats. "And I guess I'll be keeping his shirt."

Oswald nodded once, although he seemed indifferent to the explanation.

"Why are you here?" He attempted to sound standoffish, but his voice faltered.

His eyes betrayed every emotion akin to hope. A hope that she hadn't come to argue, to seek retribution for what he'd done to Alex. In less than two seconds, Oswald was certain he'd destroyed everything that he and Sylvia ever had.

Instead of answering his question immediately, Sylvia sat in front of him, her hand on his knee. He watched her with a flicker of confusion and hesitation but didn't question her simple show of affection.

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"I don't know…" He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "Judging from our last communication, I'd suspect you want a divor—"

She moved towards him suddenly, her fingers pressed against his mouth, silencing him.

He watched her, still not knowing what to expect. Thoroughly confused by her oddly calm disposition as if she were happy to see him, and even more confused by her following actions. She acted on impulse if she'd been holding her own emotions hostage—until she saw him.

Replacing her fingers were her lips, soft. She straddled his waist and moved him onto his back. Her movements were gentle, but for Oswald, they might as well had been aggressive in nature. As starved as he was to feel her again after thinking he'd lost her forever, there was a tight knot in his stomach that he couldn't unravel even though there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted her more than ever.

"Sylvia—"

"—Shhh."

Her hot, wet kisses caught his neck, her lips puckered below his ear to his sweet spot, gingerly sucking and setting his skin on fire.

He'd been in control of everything; in a matter of days, it all had shattered to pieces. In Sylvia's hands, he could feel safe again, if he could only ask for it.

And he wanted to feel safe again, knowing that she was only ever out to protect him—both his interests, heart, and body. Shouldn't he have been doing the same for her?

"Sylvia, I don't think this—" Her lips kissed along his jaw, meeting his own, silencing him once more.

He held her, feeling her body lying on top of his.

Her hips began to slowly swirl; the leggings she wore were thin. It was only a matter of minutes before her heat ignited a part of him that he wouldn't be able to hide.

"Don't speak." Her feminine timbre, so low and hypnotic. "And don't think."

He could lose himself to her tantric temptation, her nurturing hypnosis.

One of her hands caressed his face; the other threaded through his hair, tugging lightly. She could grant him this reprieve. Her lips brushed along his jaw before meeting the corner of his mouth; and he was so eager to return the temptress' kiss.

After the sort of trauma his sanity had gone through, Oswald desperately craved for submission, and he'd give it freely, unsolicited.

But did he _deserve_ this?

"Sylvia…" He mumbled.

Did he still deserve **her**?

"Wait, wait. Sylvia, stop."

She straightened and sat back, looking down at him in concern. He almost sounded _afraid_ of her.

"What?" She asked.

"This isn't right." He muttered. As a point, he prompted her to move off him.

When she did, he moved his legs and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to clear his head. She watched, perplexed, sitting on her knees behind him.

"Why are you really here?" Oswald asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"I wanted to come back."

"Why, though?"

"Because I still love you. _Despite_ what you've done to Alex, I still do. I also came back for another reason."

He looked at her again, startled by how easily she said the words. He stood up, turning to face her: "Was this a good-bye tryst or…?"

"No." She stood on her knees, smiling at him kindly. "I didn't come back to have sex with you, get my things and leave. That's not it at all."

"So why did you come back?"

"It's just as I said: I came back because I wanted to. Because I love you."

"But you were so angry—"

"—Still am, by the way."

"Of course," Oswald recanted quickly. He held out his hands as if she were about to get angry again and start lashing out. "I know you're still angry with me—"

"No. Not with you." She scooted towards the edge of the bed, standing on her knees, opposite of him; he warily watched her, uncertain.

He knew her well enough. Yet, Oswald wasn't too proud to admit that of all the times he'd ever known her to be unpredictable, this was the most she'd ever been.

"Someone took your father's remains, messed with your mayoral campaign as well as your empire, and is responsible for telling Alex to call me 'Pigeon' just when you've started to lose your marbles."

She licked her lips, her tongue pressing into her bottom lip thoughtfully as she added, "Whoever that may be tried to push me away from you. I'm sorry that I abandoned you when you needed me most. I hope you can forgive me for that."

Oswald lifted an eyebrow at her calm, logical tone, although the words spoken sounded almost foreign to him.

"Wait, wait." He lowered his hands to his sides. "I hurt _you._ But…you're apologizing to _me_?"

"You did hurt me. What you did was probably one of the worst things you could have ever done to me, aside from the obvious. And I blame you for killing him." Sylvia said steadily; Oswald winced at her honesty. "I also know that you were set up. You were an instrument in his death and you played right into their hands. But as angry as I am about that, I've decided that my rage is best reserved for whoever it was that orchestrated this. There's a special place for people who try to hurt my family."

His mind flickered to Galavan. What she had done to Galavan after what he'd done to Sylvia's brother, to Oswald's mother, to Oswald himself: A bullet in each extremity, and fifth one in between his eyes.

Sylvia's rage towards the people who hurt her family was a weapon all on its own.

Her hand raised to his face; he involuntarily flinched at the gentleness of her touch. When she didn't remove her hand, he felt as though he could fall apart, seeing the amount of love and adoration shining from her eyes.

He touched the back of her hand with his palm.

"I'm so sorry, Pigeon. I—"

"Shh. Apology accepted."

But he said quickly, "When I said that I'd have eventually killed him, I didn't mean for that to happen—"

"Shh, shh, shh." She smiled as he rested his head against her chest as her arms wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him close.

"I know that in any other given situation, you wouldn't have killed Alex…at least, not in front of me. You're better than that, I know that."

"So, I'm…?" Oswald asked reproachfully, lifting his head to meet her eyes. "Am _I_ forgiven?"

Sylvia caressed both sides of his jaw with her hands and kissed him. A tender peck.

"Yes. I forgive you."

"Just like that?"

" _Just_ like that." She whispered.

He let out a broken sigh of relief and happiness, smiling at her although his eyes watered as if he might cry again, but for happier reasons. When she kissed him again, his cheeks were wet and hot.

Sylvia pulled him back to the bed. He sat on the comforter, smiling when she moved him closer to her. In their exchange of kisses and romantics, Oswald was grateful in the way her body kept him pinned against the comforter like a weighted blanket.

"I've missed you so much," He said in between kisses. "So much."

"Yes, I know, baby. You've been through hell. I know."

The softness of her voice was enough to lower his guard. Oswald exhaled unsteadily as her hands applied pressure over his shoulders, to his chest, then down to his waist; she firmly squeezed his hips; her own pushed against him in a slow, tantalizing grind.

He quietly moaned into her mouth.

One of her hands reached between his legs, underneath him. A familiar impish smile made its way to her lips; he recognized that smile from anywhere, especially as this same hand squeezed his butt.

"I want to take care of you," She whispered. And she enticed him into another kiss; this one was much more domineering.

His body was on fire.

"I want to take care of you in the same way I did before we said 'I do'. It's been a few years since then, but I think you still remember what that felt like."

Oswald inhaled sharply out of intense arousal when her hand jacked his cock through his pajama pants.

And what she wanted to do to him—that's exactly what he needed. To submit completely. To be free and allow someone to care for him, to take his mind off everything that had happened thus far. The betrayals, the satire—to give it to someone who he knew would make him feel safe and vulnerable all at the same time.

"Do you want that?" Sylvia cooed; her lips were feather-soft against the shell of his ear.

"Yeah…"

"Yeah?" She purred. "You want me to get my strap-on and fuck you with it?"

His ears and neck grew hot, hearing her talk like that. Yes, this was definitely what he wanted.

"I know that's what you want." She gingerly sucked on his earlobe. "Just do what I say. And you will feel so much better. Mama Pigeon's going to take good care of you."

He reached out, touching the back of her hand that pumped his cock, conveying his eagerness.

"That's right…Wait here. I'm going to get ready…" He sat up as she did; he let out an involuntary moan when she leaned forward suddenly to nip his earlobe. "In the meantime: strip. Lay down on your stomach. Think of me getting undressed and putting on that strap-on. As you do, you can stroke your dick. But do _not_ cum. Understood?"

Oswald bit his bottom lip, hearing her instructions. Honestly, he'd never been happier with his orders.

"Yes, ma'am."

She cradled his face in the palm of her hand, kissing his forehead: "Good boy."

Her praise sent a gut shot of tingles throughout his entire body. Yes…he thought of himself as a good boy, but recently, he'd been pondering his element. Now, through listening to and obeying her, Oswald considered this to be—in his own way—a way to show Sylvia that everything she said, did, and what she thought of him truly still affected him in the same way it had when they first met.

Even with her forgiveness spoken, Oswald still felt as if he owed her something. To be truly subdued by and submitting to her seemed like the contrition Sylvia would value as well as one he felt he almost deserved. Even if he didn't.

Sylvia stood from the mattress and strode to the dresser. Briefly, her hand moved around in the contents of the top drawer before pulling out a harness, taking it with her. Oswald pulled off his shirt and pushed his pants down, lightly kicking them under the bed; as he did, he saw her through the cracked door of the bathroom; her milky white skin contrasting against the black leather.

A lump gathered in his chest and seemed to climb up his throat when he glimpsed the dildo that she strapped to the front. It wasn't the same girthy, short one that she'd used on him a few years ago. Instead, this one was dark blue, thinner, but lengthier. His breath hitched as he pulled down his briefs, pondering how _this_ experience would go now that she was utilizing different equipment.

His thoughts flickered to the night when it was himself, Ed, and Sylvia. He remembered seeing Ed's cock; like the dildo currently attached to the strap-on, Ed's was slimmer in girth, but bigger in length. Oswald pondered if Sylvia's strap-on dildo would likely mirror his experience if Ed had been more receptive to his affections rather than— _noooo, don't think about that._

He didn't have to force his mind to stray for long.

Sylvia's humming brought him out of his reverie. He lied down on his stomach as he'd been told and thought of the last time they'd done this.

Her body slick with sweat, her hips gyrating; with each thrust, he felt a force prod his prostate, getting him closer to where he needed to be, edging him to that precipice. The vulnerability of being penetrated was not nearly the same as being the one who was doing the penetrating; that was inarguable. As he thought more of the way she took control, Oswald leaned to his right a little so his left hand could stroke his naked dick.

"Oohh…That's what I like to see…"

Her praise made the hairs on the back of his neck and along his arms rise. The satisfaction in her voice, how pleased she was already with him; it tingled inside his stomach—he stroked his cock in a firmer grip.

"Look at me." Her words were spoken softly with a commanding edge to them.

Oswald glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight.

Sylvia was mostly naked aside from wearing the strap-on over a pair of lacy underwear; presumably, the chafing from the last time they'd done this had left a lasting impression, something she preferred to avoid this time around. He wasn't complaining; hooked to the lacy panties were a pair of red and black fishnet garters. In the time they'd been together, Sylvia's body was decorated with the past of battle scars, stab wounds—and he wanted to touch every part of her he could possibly get his hands on.

As much as he did, Oswald did his best to maintain some type of restraint even as he noticed the dildo had been pre-slathered in Lubriderm; the pump-style bottle still in her hand.

"You…" He choked on his own words, quite literally; his tongue might as well had been swollen as he'd processed her image.

"I know." She grinned widely. "I look good playing dirty, don't I?"

"Yes," Oswald answered, smiling inwardly when she sat on her knees beside him. "You really, really do."

"Hmm. That's sweet of you to say. Trying to butter me up?"

He released his cock in favor of touching her fishnet garters, running his palm over the material. Intrigued and as if struck by a cat's curiosity, Oswald used the same hand to touch the dildo; the material was silicone, jelly-like; was it the natural feel of the material or was it due to the toy being fully dipped in this water-based lube? He couldn't honestly tell.

"What do you think?" Sylvia uttered, smirking at him.

"It's not the same one as before, right?"

"Good memory. No, it's not. But…" She lowered her head to kiss his cheek, breathing in his ear: "I didn't think you'd mind either."

Oswald closed his eyes involuntarily; the sound of her voice might as well had morphed into a hand and stroked his dick for a few seconds as he heard her seductive timbre.

Yes. The affect she had on him hadn't worn off. That much was certain.

"Get on your back, dearest." She drawled.

He wanted to ask 'why' but instead, he did as he was told. Either way, he knew he'd enjoy himself. And if she took her pleasure first, Oswald was more than ready to give it to her.

* * *

Barbara sighed impatiently; Butch and Tabitha glanced knowingly at each other.

"I don't think she's leaving," Tabitha stated plainly. "And I—"

"—Whoa, what the hell is that?" Butch exclaimed.

Barbara and Tabitha looked at the mansion, back at the master bedroom where the only light shined. Sylvia's shadow could be seen. Her hands moved behind her head, seemingly pulling her hair into a ponytail. That wasn't the part that made Butch stumble in his words. Instead, it was whatever it was that made her look like she had a—

"Well!" Barbara said, both equally surprised and pleasantly amused, "That's something I didn't know about Lark. Bit of an experimental girl, isn't she!"

"Honestly," Butch said quickly, turning his head, "That's something I really didn't want to know."

"Why not?" said Tabitha with a smirk. "I'd think that's something you guys are into."

"I meant that's not something I wanted to know about _her._ I used to work with her before, remember? And, by the way, not all guys wanna be pegged—"

"—I'm actually surprised you know what that this."

"Hey! I'm hip! And I—"

"Shut up, the both of you!" Barbara snapped. She gave each an impatient glance before she turned her attention back to the window.

She watched for another few seconds before Sylvia's shadow disappeared behind the wall; the light extinguished soon after.

"Nygma was wrong." Butch told them plainly. "He thought she would leave for good when Penguin killed Alex. I guess he underestimated her devotion to him. I mean, _clearly_."

"If it's anyone's preference," said Tabitha pointedly, "I'd like to be the one to tell him. If I can't get any satisfaction from killing the bastard" (She looked pointedly at Barbara in particular) "I'd like to be able to say 'I told you so' right to his face. This will run right through him."

"Like those egg rolls we had the other night," said Butch congenially.

"I told you to go to the place on 45th. The other one got a two-star rating on the health inspection."

"I wanted to give it another try."

"And look where that got you."

"Hey, I believe in second chances."

"Your ass probably wishes you didn't," Tabitha said sneakily, smirking when Butch playfully nudged her in the side with his prosthetic hand.

"Let's just go," said Barbara grumpily.

"You know this makes your Plan A go to hell, right?" Butch pointed out as Barbara started the car and drove.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"If Lark comes home to Penguin even after he shoots her ex in the gut, what are the odds that she'll buddy up to you once she finds out that all of us plotted to kill him? Even if she does 'like-like' you. I don't know if she'd be worth convincing."

At first, she said nothing. She sighed deeply once they were on the highway.

"Tabby's right," Butch continued calmly. "Maybe it would be best if we killed her, if—"

"—No—" Barbara protested.

"—Thank you!" Tabitha smiled victoriously. "I know you think she's integral, B, but keeping her around is only going to be a headache in the long run."

"I said _no._ " Tabitha and Butch exchanged annoyed expressions. "No one is killing her."

"I don't see why—"

"I _like_ her," Barbara reminded, looking at them both.

"I get why, but she's a threat to you and to us," Butch said quizzically. "I've known her, and I've seen what she's capable of. You should've seen her when her _butler_ up and left—we ended up putting six syringes in her and even **that** didn't almost work. Physical strength aside, she's got everyone under her thumb."

"Yeah," said Tabitha with an attempt of understanding. "And she'll just try to double-cross us later if she does agree to do whatever we say."

" **No one is killing her**!" Barbara retorted.

"Why can't you—"

"I see it, Tabby. I do!" Barbara said, there was a hitch in her voice as she spoke. It silenced the two of them, at least. "I like her. I just do. It's not just because she's cute. She's been my friend—longer than either of you. She was there when Jim was acting weird; she was there for me when you and your little buddies tried to come for us when Jim didn't put down Penguin—"

"—I told you before it was just business—" Butch began.

Barbara continued as if she hadn't heard him: "She was there when Jim got with Lee, and—by the way, guys—she's the reason we have the _Sirens_ club. Even if she doesn't do what we say, we can't kill her. She just…She deserves better. _Okay_?"

Tabitha looked unconvinced.

Barbara shot her a look adding, "And I do mean 'we'. _We_ aren't going to kill her. So that _includes_ you two."

"Great. At least you're being inclusive. _Now_." Tabitha muttered.

* * *

Sylvia turned off the light, shrouding them in darkness. Unknown to either of them, there was a sound of a car pulling out near the driveway and heading back to the inner workings of Gotham. Oswald could barely hear anything as he listened dutifully and attentively to Sylvia's instructions; once the light was out, the moon granted all the vision he needed. And a vision it was.

When she joined him on the bed, Sylvia smirked down at him. In the instant she straddled him, Oswald felt the dildo, made cold by the lube, against his throbbing shaft; the sudden contrast of temperature caused his thighs and cock to twitch.

"Before I shove all six inches in your cute little butt," She spoke so casually it made him smile. "I'm going to edge you three times."

"Pigeon?"

She looked at him inquisitively, hearing the slighted unsteadiness in his voice: "Yes?"

"Any reason for the number?"

"No." She smiled sweetly. "It's just a nice number. Any more questions?"

"Well…yes."

"What is it?"

"Can I touch you?" He asked softly.

Sylvia smiled, satisfied by his inquiry. As a point, his hands had reached down to her bent knees, his fingers threading lightly through the holes of her fishnet garters, a subtle manipulation to make her approve this request. For a moment, he was sure Sylvia would, but her hands took his and placed them on the comforter to either side of him.

"You won't touch me at all. Not until I say you can. And you won't touch yourself. Each time you try," Sylvia said firmly, "You'll add to the number of times I'll decide to edge you until you can cum."

"Strict." Oswald sighed, lying down completely as he lifted his head up to meet her eyes.

"It's exactly what you deserve."

"What I deserve?" He repeated confusedly.

"Call this a taste of your punishment, if you'd prefer."

Oswald closed his eyes in acceptance of that. He knew her well enough; and he'd been right. Instead of shooting him or objecting him to an emotional wound that would've been justified after what he'd done to Alex, Sylvia had decided to take her pound of flesh in such a way that wasn't cruel, but it definitely would make him feel like it was in the next few minutes to come.

"But don't worry…" Sylvia drawled as she lowered her hand to his erection, "As soon as I am satisfied, I'll take care of you. I promise. Do you believe me?"

"Yes." And he did.

"Do you trust me?"

He uttered softly, "Completely."

"Such a good boy." Her praise made his cock twitch. "Are you ready to begin?"

"More than ready."

"We'll see."

The tendril of challenge in her voice—Oswald shuddered.

In this vast darkness apart from the light the moon permitted to flood through the window blinds, Oswald watched her palm encompass his shaft; her thumb slowly stroked over the head. He quietly moaned when her body lifted off his waist as her upper half moved between his legs. Her mouth enclosed around his girth—one hand stroked him down to the base while the other gingerly massaged his balls. It had only been a few minutes, but his heart raced, his breathing became shallow, and Oswald gripped the bed sheets beneath him.

He wished he could grab her hair, wrap it around his hand and face-fuck her. He wished he could feel her throat thicken as she swallowed him whole.

"Fuck…" He groaned.

Not touching her was going to be much harder than he thought. The vibrations of her mouth as she hummed; the slightest, ever so lightest graze of her teeth over his cockhead as she smiled when she heard him whimper.

"You're close, aren't you?" She said knowingly.

"Yes," He gasped.

"You want to cum?"

"Yes…oh, _fuck_ …"

Sylvia suddenly halted, removing her hands and mouth from him instantly. Oswald let out a desperate whine; that peak had been so close he could taste it. He didn't want her to see just how much he'd wanted it, hoping to maintain any type of dignity. Looking down at her, he'd already failed.

The moonlight captured the bright cerulean of her eyes, their stormy irises; and it no less brought out the knowing, beautiful smile that reflected back at him.

"You're struggling already, sweetheart." She uttered softly. "Do you need a break?"

"No. Just…Just get it over with." He managed, although he wouldn't have complained if he'd gotten ten more seconds to gain his composure before he felt her mouth on his cock again.

Her hand stroked him faster, up, and down. Her tongue massaged his shaft and licked up underneath his cockhead. Her wet mouth—he imagined it was her pussy, knowing how wet it must be after only torturing him for a few minutes. Sylvia always said she saw him as a king—with or without the crown. Even while he had no more subordinates to order around and his empire was destroyed, Oswald felt like an emperor—even as she tortured him, made him submit to her mentally, emotionally, and sexually, he'd never felt more empowered. And making him feel as vulnerable as he did now, Oswald knew Sylvia was just as needy and hungry for it as he was.

"Oh my _god_ ," Oswald gasped.

Her lips had moved from his cock to his balls. Gentle sucking, her tongue—

"Fuck… _fuck_ …" He pinched his eyes shut. He _really_ felt the need to face-fuck her now more than ever. If only he could move his hands…

"Don't do it, baby." She warned as if she'd read his mind.

After, she licked his perineum. And he'd never felt more tempted to disobey.

"How much longer…?"

"Don't sound so impatient. I'm trying to help you: you were about to touch me." Sylvia reminded chastely. She sat up and smirked down at him. "You tell _me_. How much longer do _you_ want this to last."

As a point, her hand moved to the lubed dildo, taking some of its layered moisture and moved her hand between his legs. A cold forefinger touched a sensitive hole; Oswald gritted his teeth, closing his eyes again as she rimmed him lightly before she slowly pushed her finger in up to her cuticle. It was a tease, a prod, a preview of what Oswald had to look forward to.

"You want to cum now, don't you?" Sylvia uttered darkly.

"Yeah…yes…Just a little more…" His hips thrusted up to her hand that held his cock; then back down to feel her finger move a little further into his ass.

He panted, bridging and ready to tip the scale towards his inevitable heady orgasm. His body perspired out of arousal and torment.

Just as she'd done before, Sylvia removed all physical contact and stimulation. The loss of it made him growl; Oswald gritted his teeth again although this time it was more out of sexual frustration than anything else.

"This is exploitative." Oswald said haggardly, glaring at her through heavy-lidded eyes.

Sylvia shrugged. Goddamn, even her apathy was sexy now.

"That was twice. And you haven't touched me yet." She reminded sportingly. "If you edge this time and you don't cum or touch my body, you'll get what you want. In the meantime, I'm getting what _I_ want."

Oswald said indignantly, "I thought you forgave me."

"And I have."

"If this is about Beals—"

Her hands massaged his thighs reassuringly.

"I will never withhold or use sex as a punishment," She promised. "I will, however, take what I want in the most gratifying way that benefits us both. Edging you has been the best idea I've had thus far." She started stroking his cock again. "Your moans, your facial expressions, the way you've been gripping the blanket, and how your body responds to me. Trust me. It's what I wanted to see. As I said before: Once I'm satisfied, I'll give you what you want. You just have to be a good boy for me."

Oswald groaned inwardly when she straddled him. His fingers twitched, but he restrained himself from caressing those supple, perky breasts, her curvy hips, or reaching underneath her strap-on and the crotchless panties she wore to feel how wet her pussy was getting from all of this. Even as she sat on him, her pussy slightly rubbed against his crotch; he could feel the leather of the strap-on, and her wet heat.

"You want to touch me, sweetie?"

Her words were gentle, coaxing.

"You said I can't." He mumbled, closing his eyes. He half-attempted to ignore her, even as she lowered the upper half of her body down onto him.

She kissed his chest, her tongue teasing one of his nipples and he bit his bottom lip as she tested his self-discipline. Her hands ran up and down his sides, over his arms. Even as she touched him, he kept his palms face-down on the comforter. Would interlacing his fingers through hers be a violation of the orders he'd been given? Would she so erringly manipulate him to make him go a fourth round of edging? Oswald let out a shaky sigh.

Knowing Sylvia… _Yeah_. That's something she'd do.

"Mmmmmm," Her voice was sultry, dipped in velvet. "Such restraint. Look at you…You're being such a good boy. So disciplined. But I know you want to touch me so badly. You want to, don't you?"

Her lips pecked his neck, her tongue leaving a wet trail. She repositioned, sitting between his legs. Her knees coaxed his thighs apart and he could feel the length of the dildo against his cock, slightly rubbing against him as her hips slowly pushed back and forth, tempting him.

Her words of praise thinly veiled in manipulation. Even now, Oswald was certain it'd work. His dick had never been harder, throbbing mercilessly.

" _God_ …" Oswald panted, looking past her to the ceiling. As he did, he caught her eyes watching him. Those stormy irises made narrow-like amid her pupils dilated by her own arousal and need.

"Are you ready for round three?" She asked sweetly.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Just do it. Please, just do it." Oswald strained against his own reluctance for the same anticipation to be built only to die like the other two times, but he was certain he could get through it.

Thinking of Sylvia thrusting that dildo against his prostate was starting to make his mouth water.

She spared him the praise and he almost welcomed it. She sat up and gestured for him to do the same. Struggling—in part—due to his raging hard-on, Oswald obeyed her nonverbal order.

She moved behind him, pressing her back against the headboard, taking his shoulders and coaxing him to sit back. Once he did, he distinctly felt the dildo against his back but at this point, it was warmed by their enclosed space; he barely acknowledged it. Instead, his attention was drawn to Sylvia's hand on his own cock; the other moved to his neck, tilting his head to the left so her lips could graze against the same ear in which she began whispering to him.

"You're going to lean back against me as I stroke your cock. You won't touch me or yourself. And when you get close, you will let me know. Understood?"

"Yes, Mama Pigeon."

"As I stroke your dick, I'm going to tell you what's going to happen next."

"Mm-hmm." Oswald uttered a sound of agreement, his lips parting as the hand that was jacking his cock moved faster with a promise.

He momentarily forgot himself, moving his hands to hold her legs but he quickly retracted them, choosing to grab the blanket instead. He couldn't bare this a fourth time!

"You're going to lube up this dildo I've got strapped to me…" She spoke lowly in his ear.

Her instructions piqued his attention; her voice was commanding, but gentle. It was a gift that she could be so soft yet so authoritative at the same time. Hearing her instructions made him harder, and he winced at the increased throbbing that plagued him to a stronger degree. What Sylvia could do to him was unforgivable but equally so invigorating.

"While you get my dick ready, I'll be getting _you_ ready." She promised. "I want that ass of yours taking three of my fingers before my cock fucks it. When I do, I'll go nice and slow. But when you're ready, I'm going to fuck you like you've never been fucked before. And I won't stop until I hear you screaming my name."

Oswald whimpered in need—the need to cum, the need to experience everything that she listed, the need to please her highness with all he could offer. His moans became more than moans; they were grunts, gasps, a mixture of whining and whimpering, and he could scarcely hide the trembling and twitching in his hands, feet, thighs, and in his cock as she brought him to the brink of a powerful orgasm.

"Fuck, fuck, god, yeah, yeah," Oswald panted; his eyebrows stitched together, his eyes pinched shut, and his mouth dropped open as the tingling pleasure built into a pressure switch that only she could press. "Fuck, Pigeon, honey, please, I'm so close—!"

He felt the smirk against his cheek. As with the past two times, she removed full contact. He lied back against her, rubbing his face, rifling a hand through his hair—a hot mess. His entire body was encased in sweat as if he'd been through a sauna, and he couldn't be more pent up with sexual frustration.

She tilted his head, so he looked at her. She kissed him tenderly; he returned it eagerly.

"You are such a good boy."

"Can I touch you now?" His voice quivered.

"Of course."

Once her permission was given, Oswald turned, facing her so he shoved his mouth against hers, _hard_. Her dark laugh that came after made his spine crawl in the best way possible as she welcomed his hands on her breasts, groping them firmly before moving down to her thighs, squeezing them next.

"Lie down, turn on your side." Sylvia ordered.

He obeyed her command. He faced the headboard briefly, lying on his right side; she placed the bottle of lube after putting five pumps in her palm. He stuttered a groan of relief when her fingers touched his ass, two fingertips rimming the hole with what felt like a tub of lube; in retrospect, it was likely only a palm-sized amount. He was pleasantly surprised to feel her other hand stroke his cock as she lied down on her right side as well. It wasn't an intentional hand job; it felt more like 'while in Rome' but Oswald wasn't complaining.

Doing as she said he would, Oswald prepared the dildo, adding as much lube to it as possible knowing that it was going inside him (hopefully) within the next few minutes. With the other free hand, he gently massaged Sylvia's thigh resting against the mattress. He glanced down at her to see Sylvia smiling, touched by his affection.

Oswald moaned when her two fingers gradually slipped inside his ass; they slowly moved in and out.

"That feels good, doesn't it?" She said knowingly.

He didn't have the bearing to tell her it did when she clearly already knew. When a third finger maneuvered itself halfway inside, Oswald had nearly pumped half the bottle and slathered the contents around the dildo.

"Are you ready?" She asked.

"More than."

"Lie on your stomach, then."

Oswald shifted his position, relaxing face-down on the comforter. His body jolted with a new electricity when he felt her knees rest on either side of his outer thighs; her hands moved up and down his back, over his arms, through his hair, and back down to his butt in a soothing gesture.

"Are you my Daddy Penguin?" Sylvia said softly.

Oswald turned his head and answered her: "Undeniably so."

"Hmm. Good answer. Do you want this?"

The dildo probed between his butt cheeks. He moaned, "Yes…please, yes."

As she promised, the dildo moved in slowly, giving him time to get used to the pressure with every inviting inch. He moaned with each exit and re-entry, the length of it getting closer and closer to where he needed it most. In the instant he moaned aloud, Sylvia knew she found it.

"Ooh, there it is." She said happily.

Her hips moved more intentionally, and Oswald grabbed the edge of the mattress underneath the headboard. He lifted his head, feeling his entire spine arch with the new pulses of pleasure that jolted through each vessel in his body, and he let out a gasping moan when Sylvia shoved his head back down against the sheets. The slap he heard and the sting that he felt on his butt cheek—put two and two together, she spanked him—was it to see his reaction?

When she did it again, he could barely keep his composure. Pleasure and pain combined into one as she fucked his asshole and the occasional biting sting that left a red tinge was almost euphoric.

"There's something about Ozzie no one knows," Sylvia said mischievously. "He likes getting spanked, doesn't he?"

She rubbed the surface of skin she'd smacked earlier with a gentle massage before she did it again and his body jerked with surprise but also something more.

Oswald felt her body cover him, pinning him down. Her arms rested parallel down his shoulders and biceps, keeping him enclosed in her embrace. Her lips were hot against his neck as she fucked him, going not nearly as slow; instead, her thrusts were faster. And how Oswald ached for it.

"Please, please," He begged.

"Tell me what you want."

"Harder."

"Is that what you really want?"

"Pigeon, please, I can't keep—huh, mm!"

Sylvia pushed his face back down into the mattress as she hoisted herself up. Her other hand grabbed his hip as she fucked him harder. Another gut shot of pleasure into his stomach, the impending orgasm just on the brink of his very existence. He grunted. He keened. His cock rubbed against the comforter, aching—the friction was just enough to do the job, but not what he wanted.

Sylvia hit his prostate over and over; the speed at which she fucked him was admirable. She took the pressure off his head and Oswald gasped, grateful for air but also for her heavy-handed administrations.

"Sylvia, please!" He panted. "Please, I need—I want—"

For a man who was so educated and articulate, Oswald couldn't find the words. Not that he needed to. She grabbed his hips, moving them up so his ass did too; as she pounded into him, her hand moved in front of him to pump his cock. Oswald held the edge of the mattress, nails digging into the bed sheets nearly clawing as he hit his peak; his cock spurted cum over Sylvia's hand, not that she minded.

As Oswald fell completely limp onto the bed, a panting breathless mess, Sylvia steadily stood on her knees.

Oswald shakily turned on his back, watching her shuffle out of her harness, throwing it along with the dildo to the side of the bed. Disheveled and trembling, he moved forward.

"What are you doing?" She laughed but was surprised as he grabbed her knees and slid her towards him. "Ah!"

He moved between her legs, leaning down to kiss her. When she returned it, Oswald smiled, lowering his hand to her underwear; when he shifted the front of her panties to the side, he felt satisfied to feel her pussy was slick and wet.

"Is this payback?" Sylvia said playfully.

"Gratitude." Oswald assured, grinning at her. "Two different things."

As a point, he lied down on his stomach before he slowly slid his tongue between the lips of her pussy, tasting her sweetness. He massaged her thighs, the red chafe marks left behind even after protecting them; but her skin was sensitive. Knowing this, he kissed along her inner thigh, licking, and sucking.

Her pleasurable sigh was very reassuring.

Her back arched as he flicked his tongue over her clit, the ball of nerves so noticeably swollen. Oswald tasted her, breathing her in. His tongue slipped inside her quivering cunt; Sylvia's back arched when he did. Devouring her, Oswald wrapped his arms around her lower half, keeping her in place.

"Oh, fuck, uh…mmm…" Her fingers raked through his hair. "Fuck, that feels good, yes…"

He rolled his tongue over her clit as he entered two fingers inside her pussy. As he anticipated, her cunt enveloped his digits so eagerly, so hungry. First, he was slow just as she had been with him; but when her hips began thrusting, begging for more, he fingered her as she needed him to; his tongue lashed against her clit, and just as she was starting to keen, Oswald sucked on it hard so her back arched again and her thighs quivered.

"That's a good girl," Oswald praised.

"Fuck me…" She begged. "I can't take it. I need _you_."

Luckily for her, he was still hard. Oswald happily indulged. As he moved to do so, her legs wrapped around his waist. His cock nudged through her entrance; her slickness welcomed him home.

Oswald grinned, feeling her push back against him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and he stayed close to her. He kissed her; she kissed him back. In this moment, he made love to her as if the world were on fire…In some ways, it really was.

"You feel so…I'm so cl…I'm clo…" Sylvia gasped.

"I know." Oswald silenced her, inviting her back into a passionate cycle of kisses. Her body trembled, writhed, and squirmed underneath him before her pussy squeezed and milked his cock.

Sylvia shuddered and smiled tiredly (although contently) back at him as it slowly passed. Post-second orgasm, Oswald slowly laid on his back, running a hand through his hair, smiling to himself when Sylvia snuggled up to him.

* * *

Some minutes passed during which Oswald distractedly combed his hand through Sylvia's hair; she cuddled against him, her head on his shoulder; one of her legs hooked between his own.

"Pigeon…? Are you still awake?"

"Mm-hmm." Sylvia's answer was almost muffled, but she peered up at him albeit sleepily. "What's up?"

"I want ask you a question."

"Sure." Sylvia sat up, stretching. "What is it?"

"Why is it that you still love me?" Oswald asked.

She looked down at him, disarmed: "What?"

"I'm not speaking poetically." He sat up as well. "You and I have had some tribulations in the past, managed to get over them no matter who or what had stood in our way—and that includes Falcone, Maroni, people like Galavan, even your brother." He gestured to her. "Of all the people in the world to stand by, why me?"

Sylvia rubbed her neck before she said curiously, "Why do you need to ask that? The reason I do is because I love you. It's why I came back. It's why I do anything for you—and that includes murder."

"Perhaps I'm not saying it right." Oswald shifted in his seat on the bed, sitting against the headboard.

Sylvia tilted her head to the side, "Perhaps your question isn't why I still love you. Are you asking _why_ I fell in love with you?"

Oswald smiled modestly: "Perhaps that's it."

Sylvia looked down but not out of embarrassment. Instead, Oswald perceived it as shyness. She moved to sit directly beside him, thinking for a second. When she spoke, she looked at him amusedly.

"You're aware," She said softly, "of the people that have come in and out of my life. Not all of them have been great people. My mother, Alex, Everett, my dad, even…"

"If this makes you feel a certain type of way, we don't have to talk about it." Oswald offered sincerely.

"No, you asked a question. I'd like to try and answer it in the best way I can. I think you deserve to understand why I do what I do, especially where it concerns you." Sylvia said ideally, a small smile on her face. "For all the time we've been together, you know I do what I do because I love you, but…"

"You've never exactly told me 'why' you love me. Apart from the obvious."

"Right." Sylvia nodded. "Um…Let's see if I can put it into words."

Oswald smiled when she took his hand. Maybe she didn't know it. But she did. And he found that reassuring.

Sylvia said lightly, "All my life, most of my life anyway, I secretly thought I was that princess who had to kiss a lot of frogs to find their prince. And I always hoped that prince would be everything I ever dreamt of and that I would be everything that he dreamt of too. But with every relationship I had, I found that my 'prince' was just another frog thinly veiled as a promise of what I wanted but could never have. Every 'prince' I found wanted me to be something that I wasn't. Alex—for example: He wanted someone to protect, like a princess. Everett wanted something he could control. And with every frog I kissed, my dream of having a prince was getting to be like a dream I would never see come true."

Oswald listened, hearing her speak as if she told a story that wasn't hers and yet she'd lived it. The longing and sadness in her voice pulled at him.

"Every prince I met was not who they seemed to be; outside, at first, they looked like everything I wanted. But as time went on—for some, a longer amount of time than for others—I realized they might've dressed and acted differently, but they still had the same warts." Sylvia smiled despite it, adding, "And then, I met you."

Her hand gave his hand a squeeze. Oswald smiled at her.

"When I met you, I really thought you were another frog trying to be my prince. You proved to me that chivalry wasn't dead, but you also didn't try to lie about what you were doing with Fish Mooney," Sylvia said sweetly. Her smile faltered as she added, "And just as soon as I thought you were the one for me, you were gone. I thought Jim had killed you, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear."

Oswald held her hand with a soft squeeze this time. She smiled at him again.

"When I learned that you were alive, I started hoping you were still the same prince you were pretending to be. When you came to my doorstep, wearing someone else's clothes, someone else's blood and told me what you'd done to get back to Gotham and back to me, I realized something _very_ important that changed my mind about you."

"Really, now." Oswald teased. "Dare I ask what that was?"

"I realized," She said softly, "that not only were you not a frog, you were neither a prince. I found out that you are a _wolf_. You do what you need to do to protect your pack, and yourself. You're vicious, protective. And if someone tries to hurt your family, you're blood thirsty. But you're also full of love, almost like a puppy."

Oswald smiled modestly at her flattering description of him. She cupped his face in her palm affectionately.

"When you told me everything you did to get back to Gotham, you didn't hide anything from me. You didn't lie to protect me. You didn't try to treat me like anything more than your equal. You were the first of any loves I'd ever had to make me feel safe and free to be _me_."

She kissed his nose pointedly, adding, "That said, I love you more than I love myself, which is saying something since I kinda love myself a lot."

Oswald grinned at her humor: "That was really poetic."

"Poetic, but the truth."

"I didn't realize that I meant—"

"—That much to me?" She finished, smirking at him. "Yeah. Well, you do now, I hope."

"It's just incomprehensible." Oswald confessed modestly.

"Well, it's true. You understand that Lark and Sylvia Gordon are the same person, even when they have different agendas and priorities. Jim's known me the longest and he still hasn't fully been able to comprehend that."

"That's one hell of an ego boost. Would it stand for me to say that you make me feel the same way since I can't articulate it as poetically as you have?"

"You could just say 'ditto' and we'll call it square." Sylvia said playfully.

"Very well. 'Ditto'."

She giggled, "Never mind. It sounds weird when you say it."

"For what it's worth," He said seriously, "I really am sorry about what happened with…"

"I know you are. I _have_ forgiven you." She held his chin firmly, so he met her eyes. "But just so we're clear: I'll never forget."

"I understand." Oswald nodded.

"Good." She kissed his cheek. "I love you, Daddy Penguin."

"I love you too, Mama Pigeon."

"Mama wants to cuddle Daddy."

Oswald lied down with her, wrapping his arms around her stomach. He kissed the back of her neck down to her shoulder, smiling when he felt her pleasurably shudder against him. Perhaps this night wasn't over just yet.


	89. Tabitha Understands Lark

Chapter Eighty-Nine: Tabitha Understands Lark

* * *

Edward Nygma stood cavalierly in the _Sirens_. It was day; the lights above were barely alive when compared to the sunshine peering in through the bay windows.

While he didn't care too much for the décor in the club _,_ he didn't mind the music that played overhead. His foot every now and again caught the beat of the chorus and the interlude.

He leaned against the bar counter, giving one of the bartenders a pleasant smile; they spared him the 'looks like it's about to rain' chitchat as he was normally accustomed to receiving at _Lean on Vee's_. He had nothing against Marcus per se, but ever since Lark's bartender had been seen in public with Victor Zsasz on a _date_ , Ed perceived him as nothing more than another threat.

Victor Zsasz was another that had been proven to be faithful to Sylvia. They were contract buddies. They were work-married. Even so, he wondered what kind of relationship they fostered now after Zsasz tore up Avenue and Sixth, hunting down her brother (for a second time). The difference between when he'd come looking for him in the GCPD and when Sylvia had been with her kin, Zsasz no doubt figured it out: Sylvia fought for him.

Allegedly, as the word on the street goes: Falcone interrupted their shoot-out, called off the hit, and it was the only reason Sylvia got out of dying—but could Victor have _really_ killed her?

More importantly, after the adventures together, their shared knowledge of the Falcones, and Victor Zsasz having made her a force to be reckoned with, **would** he have? Now, _that_ was a good riddle.

Ed smiled despite his turbulent feelings towards her. She loved with every fiber of her being, and she loved hard. What she had done to Isabella, he concluded, was no less than what Zsasz had tried to do to Jim. The only difference was that Isabella was a librarian. And she'd practically been harmless and hadn't done anything wrong.

In his mind, he didn't see Sylvia as the rightful foe. Instead, he saw her as a pawn. She'd simply carried out the orders of the person he saw in his mind when he thought of the enemy. That enemy was Oswald Cobblepot. While he'd been taking every careful step in making him pay, there was another part of him that begged to let it remain an oversight.

Oswald was his friend. Oswald saw him when no one else saw his true self—well, aside from Sylvia, but that was a given considering her superpower. Even in the bedroom farce, there was a component to sharing the same sexual dominating air that Oswald seemed to possess—as much as he wanted to have that again, for everything to go back to normal, Ed always came back to his previous agenda.

Oswald had Sylvia; they were married, they were together; and Oswald had, in a weird way, a claim to her. While Ed had been open to take upon their invitation to transgress this odd union between a beneficial friendship, chemistry, and sex, Isabella had still been _his_. And only _his_.

Oswald took it away just as soon as Ed had it.

To calm himself, Ed would think of Isabella's memory. But even that was a little blurry.

He tried to remember her face when he thought of her friendship, her nurturing spirit: Sometimes, Isabella's face flickered to that of Sylvia's. And he'd try to erase it as it made his heart too heavy.

Ed then would try to remember how Isabella made him feel: the kind of bond shared through tribulations, through common knowledge of what it felt like to be underestimated, underappreciated, undervalued, but Isabella's face would become static; in its place, was Oswald's.

This back and forth—trying to keep Isabella's memory alive and fully avenge her unjust death to the friendship and love possibilities he may have had with Oswald and Sylvia—was a battle that Ed knew he wasn't facing himself. The _other_ him, the one that always tried to get him to fall in line with Sylvia and Oswald's offer (no matter how much Ed admitted he wanted so much) was making it so much harder for this plan to follow through.

If that were the only obstacle, Ed would power through and make it work.

The double doors opened, shoving him out of his reverie. Ed peered over his shoulder to see Barbara Kean, Tabitha Galavan, and Butch Gilzean striding into the club, looking less than enthusiastic. What's more is that they were empty-handed.

"What happened?" Ed questioned.

"You were—" Tabitha began.

Ed gave her a look: "I wasn't talking to _you_." He faced Barbara indicatively.

Barbara sighed, gesturing behind her: "Nah, let her say it. She wants to."

Tabitha moved Barbara to the side, saying snidely, "Your plan didn't work, Nygma. Lark came _back_."

Ed stared at her: "You're not serious."

"Oh, she is. Like a heart attack. A big, fat one." Butch reaffirmed, taking a seat at the counter, mindfully pointing out that Ed stood too close to him before he asked for a drink, on the rocks.

Tabitha said pointedly, "A little early in the morning to be hitting the Scotch, don't you think?"

"We sat in a car for thirty minutes in front of the mansion last night, thought we had everything taken care of," said Butch irately, "and just when we thought Nygma's plan was a sure thing, Lark came back. I feel like I just did an all-nighter without a hangover to show for it. So, I'll be cashing in on that. Right about now." He downed the shot easily. "Another, please."

Happy to give him a wider berth, Ed stepped away and said skeptically, "She came back to retrieve her things and then she left."

"Nope!" Barbara said smoothly, tilting her head to the side. "Not only did she not just get her things and leave, she stayed with him, even took her time to 'test his suspension', if you know what I mean. Gotta give her credit: I knew she was a little on the freaky side, but seeing _that_ …" She smiled enthusiastically: "I have to say now I'm just intrigued."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're her FWB," Barbara teased, smirking at him. "I'd suspect you figure that one out pretty quick."

Ed still stared at her.

"She wore a strap-on." She said finally.

"That's not what I meant!" Ed snapped, although his face blushed at the mental image that came to his mind. His body involuntarily tingled in response. "You mean to tell me…She came _back_?"

"She came back!" It was Tabitha's turn to override him. "It was as if she never even left! You were _wrong_ , Nygma." She smiled despite the circumstances, feeling too smug about telling him so. "You were wrong about how much she liked Alex; you were wrong about how angry she would get—you were wrong about _her_."

"You sound all too happy about this."

"Well, it turns out you're not as smart as you thought you were. And I may not know Gordon's sister as well as either of you," said Tabitha, gesturing to the other three in the club with her, "but even I could have assumed that she wouldn't just fold after her ex-boyfriend gets shot dead in front of her. She still has it out for me after what my brother and I only did to her _mother_ -in-law—and that was three years ago!"

"Wow," Butch uttered softly, raising his eyebrows. "It's really been that long?"

"Honestly," Barbara sighed, "I'm actually surprised it has been. Time goes pretty slow in Gotham."

"Penguin killed the love of her life," Ed insisted. "That should have—"

"Don't you know? Lark doesn't **love** Alex anymore," Tabitha reminded sardonically. "You said so yourself: She had no interest in being more to him than what she was already. You said they were together thirteen years ago and for only, what, barely a year? She's been with Penguin nearly every day for the past, what five, six years—I'm surprised you even thought it would work!"

"You thought it would work too, just so you remember."

"I said it _might_. Even then, I wasn't convinced!"

"Why are you so angry?" Barbara asked, taken aback by her ferocity. "Sure, we have to rethink our strategy" (She gave Ed an understanding nod) "but it's nothing to get fussy over."

"What annoys me most about you three," Tabitha said heatedly, pointing to Butch, Barbara, and Ed respectively, "is that all of you have worked with Lark at some point in time, in one vein or another, and you _still_ underestimate her."

"Well, you underestimated her too, baby," Butch offered.

"I don't 'underestimate' her. I can't stand her. There's a difference. And you three have your heads so far up her ass, you can't tell that she loves Penguin more than she loves herself, more than she loves anyone else. She's willing to kill for him—obviously. No doubt she'd die for him too. You could kill all of her exes and she'd still come back to that crippled beaky little freak."

Tabitha stepped towards Barbara, who peered at her readily for another lashing but instead Tabitha's eyes smoldered to knowing.

"It's why I say we should kill Lark and be done with it. Because when all this is said and done," She said lowly. "Lark isn't going to just bow down without demanding compensation for what she's lost. Trust me. The only people who _really_ know what to expect after they've wronged people in her life are as dead as _they_ are."

"So how have you managed to stay alive this entire time?" Ed questioned smartly.

"Because Penguin cares about what Lark wants. And Lark cares for Barbara. And it's because of her that Penguin hasn't done anything to find me." She smiled satirically at the blonde. "I don't know what that means for me once she figures out that you were one of the people who killed the one person in this life that literally means the entire world to her." She took her whip and handed it to Barbara with finality: "I just hope you're ready for whatever may come from this."

She started to walk away but she advanced towards Ed, who numbly took a step back.

"As for you…" She poked him in the chest with her good hand. "You might be in the most dangerous position of all. You've framed Jim Gordon for a crime _she_ committed. He was put in Black Gate because of you—you, moreover, are the reason she lost her niece or nephew or what-have-you. You've told her you loved her and have slept with her _twice_. Not to mention you were Penguin's closest friend. Once she figures out that you're the one responsible for Alex's death sentence, you're going to have a _lot_ to answer to." Tabitha smiled happily without any sarcasm, adding, "I honestly think I prefer that to me killing you. So, however this works out, at least Lark will be doing me a favor."

With a sharp turn, Tabitha flicked her ponytail into Ed's face before striding out of the club.

Butch raised his eyebrows as he whistled low, earning a look from Ed and Barbara as he said, "Those two may go at it like two male lions in a pride, but I'll tell you one thing" (He downed his third shot) "She might understand Lark better than any of us. And _that's_ scary."


	90. Morning Sex

Chapter Ninety: Morning Sex

* * *

Sylvia woke up in the morning light, squinting her eyes against it before she shoved her face in the pillow, shuffling her feet back under the covers.

The uncomfortable sigh that came from her left made her smile as she opened one eye to see Oswald's head disappear under the comforter.

"The sun is bright." He grumbled sleepily.

"You're telling me." She murmured. "You can use me as a shield, if you prefer."

"Don't mind if I do." Oswald's voice was always hoarse and low in the morning; add to this, his small tease, and Sylvia's body warmed almost instantly.

"The sun is an unstoppable force. Don't take my sacrifice at face value."

Oswald let out a breathy laugh at her joke, freely snuggling closer to her.

The feeling of his naked body rubbing against hers made Sylvia aware of her own nudity. With his entire body, to include his head, hidden under the comforter, it felt as if he were an invisible force cozying up to her; and that force was mischievous.

It was unmistakable; he lied on his stomach beside her, his right hand lazily cupping the breast closest to him. His thumb traced a slow circle around her nipple, grazing the pad of it over the hardened peak before his hand moved to do the same with the other.

With his hand focused on one breast, his mouth seemed to give the other attention lest it become envious. When his lips enclosed around the sensitive nub, his tongue flicked over it, lightly sucking.

"Someone woke up in a mood, didn't he?" She drawled.

From under the covers, Oswald responded, "That's not a question if you know the answer to it."

"Morning sex to start the day. Hasn't that already been done?"

He breathed a channel of cool air over her wet nipples and she shivered as a result. To this point, he returned, "I don't hear any complaints…" He lifted the comforter from his head, looking up at her. "Shall I continue?"

"No one told you to stop."

With her permission, Oswald lifted himself from the bed and moved between her legs, lightly parting them as he disappeared back under the covers. He covered her inner thighs in kisses with his tongue, gingerly sucking her flesh until the spot became pink; her moans overhead encouraged him.

He made a 'V' with his fingers, gently massaging either side of her pink slit while the tip of his tongue flicked around her clit. When her pussy gleamed with his saliva and her excitement, Oswald dipped a finger inside.

"Not that I don't appreciate this," Sylvia mumbled, lifting the covers to peer down at him. "But..mm…could you skip to the part where you fuck my brains out?"

"Why? Do you have somewhere to be?"

"No," She half-giggled, half-moaned at his cocky response, "but after the dreams I've had, I think that's all the teasing I can withstand."

"I can tell." Oswald inserted two fingers easily inside, smirking at her when her hips moved to gain more friction.

"Ozzie, can—" She started to sit up.

"Lie back down."

She looked at him reproachfully in response to his command. Oswald moved up from his position between her thighs so she steadily reclined, smiling inwardly when he placed half his weight on her.

He softly instructed, "Stay on your back."

"But—"

He kissed her lips, and she returned it immediately, a soft moan escaping into his mouth before he moved his kisses to her neck, then along her ear, licking the shell as he whispered, "It's my turn to take care of _you_ , my petal."

 _Petal_. That pet name made her feel delicate, like a princess, but in the best way possible.

She relaxed.

Oswald rubbed his hands over her body, shifting between different pressures of firm and feather-like touches to her neck, wrapping his hands around it and watching her head recline back to give him all the access he could want; to her breasts, a soft squeeze followed by his lips that gave them equal attention; he slid his cock up and down between the lips of her slick pussy, his cockhead rubbed against her clit.

Sylvia moaned in quiet short exhales. Her sharp intakes, shaky and uncontrolled.

He knew all the ways to light her on fire without setting off a single firework. Even now, she knew if he suddenly became rough, or started talking dirty, her body would eat it up and explode in a matter of seconds. His movements were intentional and attentive; words were barely exchanged between them, even as her breath hitched when his cock nudged her entrance.

Oswald pressed his lips against hers as he slowly thrust inside her. Her legs wrapped around his waist before they slowly fell back down as he moved closer to her, closing the space left between their bodies from head to toe. Her pleasurable sigh as his weight pinned her down was comforting to him.

"I love you." He whispered.

She smiled at him: "I love you too, baby."

He kissed her cheek and bore most of his weight to his forearms that supported him on the bed and quickened his pace.

Hearing his breathing change and the soft grunts in her ear, Sylvia felt the pressure building inside her stomach, the heated coil feeling as if it would expand before it finally burst. Her nails lightly dug into his sides and raked his arms as Oswald's pace quickened once he heard her shortened gasps and heady moans.

"Right there…" She gasped. Her nails dug harder. "Almost…fuck, fuck, fuck!" When her pussy squeezed his cock, her back arched; her arms wrapped around his back, pulling him down to keep him close.

"Fuck…!" She panted.

Oswald couldn't hide his smug little smile, feeling her body move through its own pleasurable contractions. But his own peak was just on the horizon; he was ready to cum at any moment. Sensing its approach, Sylvia lifted a leg, knowingly. Oswald grabbed her from behind the knee and held it as he sat up and fucked her hard and deep. It was a different angle, one from which she had little to no control over his penetration—and this power over her, however it came to be, was exactly what was needed to push him over the edge.

He came inside her, filling her completely. Sylvia smiled affectionately as he took the leg he currently held and kissed her calf before gently lowering it to join the rest of her.

"I can't express it enough how great it is to wake up next to you after everything that's happened," Oswald said softly as he sat next to her.

"Aw. I've missed you too."

He grinned at her relaxed response.

His romantics had always been met with her casual playfulness; somehow, he liked this more than those who tried to make a whole fiasco out of it. Her informal approach was familiar, and familiarity is what he craved more than ever, particularly during this time as the tides were changing.

"Now that we're completely awake and I've been thoroughly fucked," Sylvia said congenially, sitting up as well, "I think we should take a bath, get dressed, eat, and then we talk about damage control. Preferably, in that order. As much as I like talking to you in my birthday suit, I feel like it's more appropriate wearing clothes as we discuss the possibility of a snake in our garden."

As she spoke, she shakily stood to her feet, stumbling for obvious reasons before she gained her equilibrium back. She headed into the bathroom.

He heard the faucet turn on as she prepared a bath. Her walk back was more graceful; she stood in front of him, running a brush through her hair.

"From the sound of it, it seems like you already have an idea." Oswald guessed.

"I do, actually."

"And that is?"

"You don't want to wait until after we eat to discuss this?"

"No." Oswald said coolly. "I think it's best if we just talk it through now."

"As you like." She nodded. "Well, finding out who took Elijah's body is not going to happen. My lead fell flatter than flat. So, I'm afraid that'll have to be put to the side. I _do_ want to find out who told Alex to call me 'Pigeon'. Alex was an idiot—he had his smart moments, but otherwise: an idiot. He said he knew what it meant by calling me 'Pigeon' in front of you, but I don't think he understood the consequences that would have followed."

Oswald muttered with a roll of his eyes, "That _did_ follow."

"Don't start." She held a finger out to him. A warning. However, Sylvia's tone lightened. "Whoever this person is…They knew you well enough that anyone else calling me that would set you off."

"Everyone knows I call you that," Oswald reminded, getting to his feet. "All the veterans who've ever worked for us know."

"Yeah, but not a lot of people know how much it irritates me when other people do—even jokingly."

"Why would that matter?"

"Because who ever told Alex to do it," said Sylvia smartly, "is someone who has known us long enough to get under our skin. And that narrows it down to people who we've known longer than a few months."

Oswald clarified: "You're talking about our enemies?"

"Well, Tabitha, Butch, others—sure. While enemies are fickle as they come, I'm more concerned about our inner circle."

She briefly left to the bathroom to check on the tub before she came back, running a hand through her now fully brushed locks. As she spoke, her tone was matter of fact; the business-like tone that Oswald found equally attractive as those that commanded—or when she was subdued by—him.

"Anyone who's tangled with us—or who has been around us for a while—knows I can't stand anyone else calling me 'Pigeon' any more than you do." She stated, putting a hand on her hip.

"Well, friends _and_ enemies: that widens our berth quite a bit, don't you think?"

"At this point, I'm looking at everyone: Victor, Gabe, Jack, Joel, Paddock's old crew—which I guess they're also mine, at this point—Tabitha, Barbara, Butch…Ed."

" _Ed_?" Oswald repeated.

Sylvia heard his startled tone, but she smiled reassuringly: "Yes. Ed knows how much Alex wanted to escalate our friendship, knows how much you hated Alex. He's also known me longer than anyone else in our circle…besides Barbara, at least."

"But he's Ed."

"I know that. Like I said: I'm looking at everyone."

"But Ed is—"

"—I'm not saying he's the one. But he has means and opportunity." She offered smoothly, gesturing to him. "He's had a multitude of opportunities to talk to Alex about us, about me, and if anyone knows _you_ better—besides myself, at least—it's Edward Nygma."

Oswald looked heartbroken at her speculation and she said with a comforting ease, "I'm not saying it's him. I'm just saying, we need to look at everyone, _including_ the people we'd hope it wouldn't be."

"You're right. We should do this after we eat." He said quickly.

He moved past her to the bathroom, keeping an eye on the temperature and fill of the tub.

Sylvia cast her eyes to the window. She'd never seen so much reluctance or denial in that man. He didn't even want to surmise that someone he loved could turn against him so harshly.

Sylvia knew betrayal as well as he did. But the difference between her tribulations and his was that the loves of her life had managed to betray her in one way or another. She was almost used to it by now. But Oswald had never been betrayed by a lover nor considered that this was even a possibility.

Oswald's mother really did instill a kind of child-like idealism in him where it concerned the people he loved. As much as Gertrud had been a light in his life, Sylvia wondered if she'd also hobbled him before he could even fully run whereas her own father made sure she could run without learning how to crawl. Were either methods of approach better than the other?

Sylvia joined Oswald in the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the water. She stood in front of him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders without prompting.

"I'm sorry if I upset you, sweetheart." She whispered.

"No. It's fine." He smiled inwardly when she kissed his forehead; her hand massaged the back of his neck. It was soothing, and he sighed deeply, relaxed. "That feels nice."

She leaned past him and turned off the water. She stepped into the tub first and moved so he could join her. When he did, Sylvia held out her arms and separated her legs. Taking her invitation, Oswald turned and relaxed his back against her chest.

During the bath, the topic of Ed and their inner circle joining heads to destroy all that Oswald had built was placed to the side.


	91. Detective Work

Chapter Ninety-One: Detective Work

* * *

Breakfast and lunch had come and gone in which neither Sylvia nor Oswald wished to talk about what needed to be discussed. For a while longer, they wanted to embrace that the other was in their life once again without talk of treachery and possible conspiracies.

However, as dinner approached, Sylvia and Oswald sat at what used to be the table that had been the happening point in the Meeting Room. For the moment, it would serve only as a dining table. After Olga finished setting the table with plates, silverware and dinner, Oswald sat down, his chin rested stiffly in the palm of his hand.

He spent that time reminiscing over better times, back when he'd just taken over and started cracking down on people who had still owed Falcone their debts.

Dinner had been quiet while he and Sylvia ate. After, he could've continued dwelling on better times. Instead, he glanced across from him, watching Sylvia pace as she left voicemails on Gabe's, Jack's, and Joel's phones and others.

After the last voicemail had been left, Sylvia strode towards the table, and threw the phone on its surface with a careless clatter. Oswald lifted his head, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Any luck?" He inquired.

Sylvia sighed, rolling her eyes as she clicked her tongue: "None of them are picking up. Not Benson, not Gabe, not Jack or Joel. None of them."

She sent him an almost accusatory glance.

He held up his hands in surrender: " _I_ didn't do anything to them, if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't," She responded edgily. "But it's not like them to brush me off."

"Well, in hindsight," Oswald offered, "Gabe quickly turned on Frankie Carbone when I offered him higher compensation for his utilitarian services."

"And he might betray _us_ in any case someone else did the same?"

"He's a moron. But he's a loyal moron."

"He's not a moron." Sylvia corrected immediately. "He's not IQ-smart, but I wouldn't brand him as an idiot. He just thinks differently than the rest of us."

"Agree to disagree."

"Even if Gabe did turn, I wouldn't expect the twins to follow suit."

"I wouldn't either. They put up with Victor's brutal interrogation."

"Well, so did Butch, and look how that turned out." Sylvia said distastefully, playing Devil's Advocate. "Butch underwent some major brainwashing, and Tabitha still cracked the code. The twins might be just as susceptible to a reversal, given the right…"

Oswald glanced at her interestedly. She'd trailed off, and that was concerning. Sensing the gears in her mind shifting, he leaned forward.

"What is it?" He asked curiously.

Sylvia walked over to him, sitting in the chair adjacent to his left: "Do you know where Tabitha and Butch are currently?"

"No." Oswald said coolly. "If I remember correctly, you said you didn't want me to waste our resources finding them. Barbara still cares for them—"

"—No, I said I didn't want your people to go after Tabitha because she might slaughter all of them. Even so, I didn't think you'd follow my suggestion, by the book."

"So, you _did_ want me to find her?"

"Oh, nevermind." Sylvia sighed. "My point is that Tabitha was able to reverse Victor's work with Butch. What if she was able to do the same with Jack and Joel?"

Oswald frowned: "You believe she's attempting a takeover?"

"Not attempting, no. I think it's already in due process. Think about it, hun." Sylvia held up a finger for each piece of evidence she presented: "None of this happened until I left town. Tabitha, more than anyone, knows how dependent we are on each other: her brother brought out the worst in both of us."

"That doesn't explain half the things that have been happening, Pet."

"It doesn't?" She challenged quizzically. "First, your father's remains disappear—Tabitha knows how much it affected you when she killed your mother. The same could be assumed for your father. Second, you kill Tarquin: _his_ body goes missing, and then your father's remains are no longer traceable. Tabitha's quick: She could be in and out of there without being seen. And Tabitha doesn't know much about Alex, but I'm sure Barbara knew Alex and I used to date—and there's been plenty of times she's mocked our relationship by calling me 'pigeon'. That would explain that whole set-up between you and Alex."

Oswald watched her with increased admiration but also skepticism. Was Tabitha really this smart enough to pull this off?

"All of this sounds like something Tabitha would do." Sylvia declared.

"I see your point, but she's a wanted criminal for helping Butch escape after his summer stock revival of the Red-Hood Gang." Oswald reminded logically. "She couldn't have walked into City Hall without being detained."

"I don't know—She's a sneaky bitch."

"You give her too much credit."

"And I don't think you give her enough." Sylvia said, standing to her feet.

"I respect your ability to value an enemy's strengths: it's a tactical trait I admire, you know this, but I still think you're giving her too much credit."

"Why? Her brother was just as conniving. It's a gene pool thing. She has motive and opportunity: She obviously knows you'll kill her one day. Maybe she was tired of having a target on her back after all this time. Survival is a damn good motive. And opportunity? She's a criminal. She has no job! She has all the time in the world to watch this house and attack you when you're at your weakest."

"I get that. I'm trying to say that I highly doubt she thought of this all on her own." Oswald said skeptically. "She was a sidekick to her brother—she was only the muscle."

"So, you think she's in it with someone else?"

"Without a doubt."

Sylvia's face flickered with unease and uncertainty. Oswald could see it so clearly. She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the back of a chair.

"You don't think she's in this with Barbara, do you?" Sylvia uttered timidly.

Oswald didn't answer; merely for the fact, he wasn't too sure of it himself.

He said gingerly, "Barbara _has_ been helping me try to gain control of my empire. She said she called the Heads of the Crime Families—"

"—She called them? _I_ didn't receive a phone call."

"It was supposed to be a summons. I think she didn't include you because you were out of town."

"How do you know this call happened at all?"

"Because Tommy Bones called," Oswald answered strictly. "He told me Ed was kidnapped."

"And then what?"

"He said that if I surrendered quietly, I would be able to keep being Mayor."

"That's why you think someone kidnapped Ed?"

"Of course, it is. Wouldn't you?"

"Well…" Sylvia rolled her tongue into the side of her cheek thoughtfully. "Did they say _why_ they kidnapped Ed?"

"Obviously, it was out of rebellion."

"But then Tommy Bones, the person who made the call, he ends up dead." Sylvia marked coolly. "Benson said that you were putting hits out on Tommy, the Duke, Santino—"

"—Yeah, yeah. That was me."

"And since then, no one has contacted you about Ed?"

"Not that I know of."

Sylvia sighed, sitting back down in the chair she'd only recently vacated.

Oswald watched her attentively; it was fascinating, watching her put the pieces together. She resembled Jim Gordon in this fashion, the way she stiffly sat but quietly ran these new details in her mind. Being related to a detective and a lawyer obviously had its perks.

She looked at him for a moment and said firmly, "Why, after all this time, did Tommy Bones decide he wouldn't be putting up with any of your shit? Why _now_? The hits you put out on Santino…Who did you send?"

"Just anyone," Oswald said carelessly. "I was trying to look for Ed. I didn't care who hit their safe houses."

"What about Anderson, Belich, the Duke—"

"—I put hits out on all of them."

"You attacked _all_ of your subordinates?" Sylvia inquired incredulously.

"Why are you surprised? You knew this already."

"I knew you were putting hits out on people because Benson told me—I didn't realize you were doing a _blanket assault_."

"Like I said: I just wanted to find Ed. It didn't really amount to anything, obviously, since I still don't know where he is."

"Yeah, and that's the weird part." Sylvia minded coolly while she fidgeted with the sugar bowl on the table; she kept rotating it. Between that and running the pad of her forefinger over the rim of her coffee cup—she was restless.

"What is?"

"Not hearing anything after all of that."

"What do you mean?"

"You literally rain hellfire on all of the Crime Families—besides my own—and you don't receive a phone call telling you that Ed's dead because of your response? They wanted you to surrender quietly, otherwise they'd kill him. Well, you've not surrendered, so—"

Oswald said worriedly, "Oh my god, you think they killed him!"

"No, no, no!" She said quickly. "I'm saying that I think they lied."

"You…So, wait, you think they didn't plan on killing him?"

"Not even."

"What are you saying?"

Sylvia shrugged and said carefully, "My honest opinion? I don't think Ed's life has been in any real danger. If anything, he's either hiding out or they don't have Ed at all. I think it was a way for you to go after every person that remotely supported you to make you weaker. All of that was a way to destabilize your empire and make you easier to kill."

Oswald frowned: "So everything fell into place just like they wanted, including killing Beals. They probably knew he was going to leave Gotham, so that was just another checkmark in their book, I suppose. Better to be rid of another asset."

"Well, I don't think that either."

He looked at her imploringly: "Why not?"

"No one but I knew that Alex was going to leave Gotham. He didn't change his mind until we were sitting right there," Sylvia said, pointing to the living room couch. "Killing Alex would've weakened _my_ resources, but that's not why they planned for him to die."

Oswald said confusedly, "Why, then?"

"When you killed Alex, you pushed me away. Whoever is responsible—Tabitha, maybe—knew that by killing Alex, you would push me away. Alex's death wasn't meant to weaken me. It was meant to weaken _you_. I think they might've killed you last night if I hadn't come back."

Oswald let that thought simmer for a while.

In the meantime, Sylvia took a sip from her coffee, making a face before she took the sugar bowl from the middle of the table and plopped three spoonfuls in her cup, stirring with a different spoon.

"You're right though," She contemplated aloud. "Tabitha's smart but she couldn't have done all of this alone. There's way too much going on there."

"Well, not to prod what I imagine is a sensitive issue, but you and I both know whose company she prefers. In fact, they're partners at a club of which you were its sole benefactor."

"Barbara wants the empire, but I don't think she'd—"

"—You said we're looking at our enemies as well as our inner circle, people who've known us longer than a few months, who know us _both_." Oswald reminded strictly. "Barbara has known you almost as long as I have— _longer_. She's been to enough meetings to be aware of how greatly all the Five Families work in tandem, and I'd wager she has warmer feelings towards her ex-girlfriend than she does for you."

"Ozzie, you don't understand the attachment she has for me. Every single time we're in the same room, she's either flirting with me or trying to kiss me. Sometimes, _both_. Like the other day, she was here when you were out on a conference and Ed was doing whatever. I came home after my performance in the Lo Boyz territory and she was—"

Oswald frowned: "She was here, alone?"

"Yeah."

"What was she doing?"

"I don't know—talking to Olga. That's what I came home to anyway. When I asked her why she was here, she said it was to see me, but anyone who knew my schedule was aware that I was at a performance."

"So, she was lying."

"Obviously," Sylvia said sardonically.

"What happened?"

"Not much. She started talking about how she wanted to see me more. We had champagne—and before you ask me because I can see you getting angry—we didn't do anything. I mean, she kissed me, but it didn't go further—"

"Did you let her?" He questioned.

"At first, just to see what was going to happen—"

Oswald said irritably, "And you wonder why I get jealous all the time."

"Nothing _happened_." Sylvia reminded. "I stopped it before it went any further."

"You should have stopped it when she started kissing you—"

"—I know, okay…" Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek and said sincerely, "I'm sorry I let it get that far. I was tired and I know it's not an excuse."

Oswald felt how apologetic she was simply by seeing her torn expression.

Sylvia was capable of manipulating people, both sexes, but always seemed to be most susceptible to Barbara's seduction.

Whatever her feelings towards that woman, Oswald felt deep in his soul that it couldn't match the love she had for him. Obviously: He killed Alex and, not even six hours later, she had been in their bed.

With all things considered, this barely grazed the surface of the problems with which they were currently facing.

"I really _am_ sorry." Sylvia said sadly.

He stood and took three steps towards her; she looked up at him from her chair, wistful. After a moment, he caressed her face in his hand and placed a gentle but meaningful kiss to her lips and she returned it.

"Do you forgive me?" She asked.

"Look at our circumstances right now," Oswald said calmly. His thumb stroked her cheek. "Would _you_ care?"

She smiled with an understanding: "Thank you."

Olga came by, picking up the empty plates and silverware. As she did, Oswald and Sylvia thanked her politely before she left the room. Once she'd gone, they moved to the living room couch where Sylvia cuddled up beside him, smiling at their closeness.

"Case and point," Oswald said darkly, "we're looking at Barbara and Tabitha being our suspects. They're trying to weaken us, it seems."

"You."

"Excuse me?"

"Everything that has been done was to weaken you." Sylvia reminded. "Someone is out to get _you_. Your father was used against you. Your subordinates turned against you—none of them, however, have turned against _me_. No one in my Crime Family has been killed—"

"—I haven't given any orders to hit Paddock's old crew—"

"Even so, I think it's a clue. Nothing on my end has been damaged, not even as my reputation as the First Lady of Gotham. So, whoever it is that's after you, they're leaving me out of their agenda. At least, for now."

"But Beals—"

"Alex's dying was not to get to me. My leaving was a side effect. You killing Alex was their way of pushing me away so that you'd be completely alone. Barbara wants to be at the top of the food chain so badly, I'm starting to see her motive for this. And her affection for me is a good motive for leaving me alone while she's busy attacking you. I'm convinced that it's her and Tabitha, and maybe one other."

"I imagine so."

"Maybe Butch."

Oswald nodded: "That's a given. What about the others? You mentioned earlier that Victor came for your brother again."

"He did, but he was acting on Falcone's orders."

"How _is_ Jim?"

"He's fine." Sylvia said dismissively. "Doing the most, per usual. He and I were cut loose when Falcone called off the hit."

"Word on the street is that you and Victor had a nice little scuffle before that happened."

"He put a gun in my face. I put one in his face. Call it even."

"And you don't think—"

"Victor isn't trying to destroy your empire, sweetheart. He's loyal to Falcone, but he's not going to turn his back on the only other boss who gives him some of the best contracts since Falcone was in charge. As for me: Victor and I, we have an understanding. A little more of an understanding that he probably realizes."

"What are you talking about?"

"He had a hard time killing me even when he had a couple opportunities to do it: And that's _on_ Falcone's orders. Speaking of which…"

Oswald tilted his head to the side, glancing at her as she stood briefly before she climbed on him, straddling his waist.

"Speaking of?" Oswald prompted readily, resting his hands on her thighs.

"Falcone said that the only reason I _wasn't_ dead for intervening was because you and he have some sort of truce."

"Ah."

"Yeah." Sylvia said slyly. "Is that true?"

"Yes."

She dropped her coy tone: "Are you serious? When did you two make this truce? Why did you make it to begin with? What was it about?"

"Would you like me to answer your questions in chronological order?"

"Preferably, in order of importance as you see fit."

Oswald smiled plainly, saying, "I was serious when I said we do have one. And it's a code of honor."

"Meaning?"

"My family won't hurt his; and his family will not hurt mine."

"That sounds so… _ordinary_. Did you come to him for that or—"

"No, he came to me. At his son's engagement party, actually."

"Where was _I_?"

"You were singing on stage when he sat down with me at our table." Oswald answered dutifully. "And if you need to know why: He knows how you feel about Jim Gordon not being with Dr. Thompkins. And, apparently, you gave him the impression you didn't like his daughter either. He also knows how impulsive and passionate you can be when it pertains to my own protection—"

"—It's purely out of love—"

"—He knows. As do I." Oswald said comfortingly. "The bare bones of the truce: He wanted to guarantee their safety. So, I gave him that."

"I wouldn't hurt his family just because Lee deserves better than Mario Falcone. Do I think she's better off with Jim, of course, but that's nothing to get all homicidal about."

"Are you so certain?" Oswald said with a playful suspicion.

She gave his tie a tug and said smoothly, "The only reason I would go after Falcone is if his family tried hurting _mine_."

"Speaking of—there's a caveat to that."

"Isn't there always. What is it?"

"Evidently, as it sounds," Oswald said coolly (although he seemed on edge about this as he spoke), "Falcone has a handful of weaponized assassins who've been tasked to protect him and his daughter which would be accomplished by pursuing you. He called them 'sleeper agents'."

"Sounds like a threat." Sylvia said seriously.

"Trust me: It did."

"Well, it's a good thing we don't have to worry about me going after his family. The only one I think I'd have a real problem with is dead. Does the truce work both ways? If Falcone decided to come after me, could we go after _him_?"

Oswald said lightly, "Honestly, given the choice, I'd rather keep the peace."

"Hm. Just so we're clear, if anyone—Falcone or his lovely daughter—ever did anything to you, I'll have you know that all bets are off. Weaponized assassins or not." Sylvia whispered before she kissed him. After, she added darkly, "He'd have trouble rolling in his grave after what I'd finish doing to him."

"I think it's really hot when you talk like that."

"Threats of loss of limbs get you worked up, huh?" Sylvia teased.

He couldn't respond when she shoved her mouth against him for an intense, deeper kiss; as she did, her hands dragged down his chest, rotating her hips so her lower half rubbed against him.

"I'm so happy you came back—sex and dirty talk, aside." Oswald said contently.

"While we're on the subject of me having come back," Sylvia said smoothly, "did you happen to see Charleen before she left? I saw the note she'd left on her bed…"

"Charleen has been gone for about three days." He informed. "She wrote the note before she left."

"You already read the note?"

"I told her to leave one in any case you came back, and I was asleep."

"So, she was gone before Alex and I ever arrived?"

"Yes, she was. She said she had to take care of some 'business'."

"Yeah, she said she had some acquaintances in the past to deal with at the Flea." Sylvia recalled from reading the note. "Did she seem okay to you?"

"Impetuous, callous, and a little on edge, but no more than usual."

"Did she say how long it would be before she came back?"

"No, she didn't."

"I think we should go find her."

"I think, as a whole, she'll return when she's good and ready," said Oswald comfortably.

"But she has one of my guns: She took them from the safe—"

"—I'm sure she knows how to use it if she gets into any trouble."

"I still think we should go look for her."

"She doesn't want to be found." Oswald reminded.

"But she—"

"—She will be _fine_ , Pigeon."

Sylvia smiled halfheartedly at his serious attempt to soothe her. He took one of her hands and kissed the back of it lovingly.

"She's chaotic by preference, and I pity the person who engages with her when she's in a particularly sour mood. Forget the fact, she's armed. She _will_ be fine, Pet."

"I just want her to be safe." Sylvia said reluctantly.

"She can look after herself. In the meantime, we have a serious problem to take care of. Don't we?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I love it when you take control." She whispered excitedly.

"I know you do."

Oswald heard her relaxed sigh when he kissed her, holding her waist, and pulling her closer to him when she kissed him. Her lips parted with an invitation and he happily obliged. After a few minutes in which they were distracted, Oswald waited for the kiss to naturally break before he tapped her once on the thigh, bringing their makeout session to a halt.

"What?" Sylvia asked breathlessly.

"We have work to do, honey."

"Just two more minutes?"

"This is kind of important." He hinted.

"Fiiiine. I'll call my people again, have them come over. If they don't, I'll threaten to hang them in a dungeon by their balls," She said mischievously. "That should get 'em running, heh."

She stood up, taking her phone from the coffee table; before she could make the calls again, he took her hand and gently pulled her back to him.

"What is it?" She asked expectantly.

He opened his mouth to say something but instead he suddenly kissed her; one hand around her neck, pulling her closer to him, and the other entangled in her hair. As if by instinct, her arms wrapped around his back, wanting to be even closer.

The kiss was abruptly ended when Sylvia's phone started going off.

"Fuck." The word was mumbled against Oswald's lips as she looked down at the phone in her hand. "It's Jim."

"Maybe Falcone had another change of heart." Oswald teased.

"I doubt it. Hold on." She kissed his cheek before she answered the call: "Jim, I'm _kind_ of in the middle of something."

"Turn on your TV."

"What?"

"Do what I say. Right now. Turn on your TV." Jim said urgently. "Channel 9. Now."

Sylvia glanced at Oswald, perplexed, who returned it just as quickly before she turned towards the television set. Picking up the remote, she turned it on as Jim so hurriedly and bossily demanded. When she did, Sylvia and Oswald's eyes widened at the spectator that smiled back at them. It was Jerome: his face stitched together and very much alive.

"Jim? Is this shit real?" Sylvia said incredulously.

"It is…" Jim said quickly, "We're going to try and stop him before he goes off the grid again. I just know you and Jerome have had dealings in the past, and you needed to know he was alive. Whatever you do, stay home. You _and_ Penguin. Got it?"

"Got it." Sylvia nodded.

"I—shit—I gotta go, I gotta go—love you—"

Oswald turned the volume up on the television. Jerome's laugh was unmistakably his. As he spoke, he stood in front of a man who was beaten up, wearing a police officer's uniform.

"Am I live? Am I on air?" Jerome said satirically, grinning the entire time. "Can you hear me? Ah, screw it. Let's do it."

Oswald and Sylvia stood in front of the TV, glancing at each other before looking back at the screen. Sylvia shook her head: "First, Galavan. Then Fish. Now, Jerome. _Lovely_."

"Hi. Some of you may know, I died," Jerome said with a mock disappointment. "Uh-oh. But take it from me, death is… _dull._ But coming back, that is something. Leave it to dying to give you a whole new perspective on life. And I would like to share that with you." He turned his attention from the camera to the individual in the uniform: "Ah, Officer, you look terrible. Hey, you got—ah—" He pulled a flip lighter out of the man's ear.

"Magic. Of course." Oswald criticized.

"It's not a bad magic trick." Sylvia uttered lightly.

"Tonight, Gotham," Jerome drawled, charismatic. "In the darkness, there are no rules. So, tonight, Gotham, do what you want. Kill who you want. Hmm? And when morning comes, you, too, shall be…reborn."

He sparked up and threw an electrical cord down on the floor from where he stood, then gave a sickly cackle before muttering something to the alleged officer and then walking away.

"Where the hell is he?" Sylvia asked curiously.

Twenty seconds later, Channel 9 became static and the lights went out, shrouding them in darkness for save the fire that was still crackling away under the mantle.

"Oh." Sylvia muttered, looking up at the ceiling. "That's where he was: power plant."

"Well, things just got a little more interesting, didn't they?" said Oswald sarcastically. "Olga! Would you get the candles from the back!"

"Yes, Mr. Penguin!" Olga called from the bathroom.

Sylvia sent him a crooked smile.

Oswald looked at her questionably: "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I don't know," She said with a gentle shrug. "Power's out. We're lighting candles. Kinda gives me a few ideas as to what you and I can do in the meantime."

"Pigeon, Valeska is _alive._ Gotham's been given a wild card to do a range of diabolical monstrosities to its innocent bystanders. And you want—"

"—To fuck, _yes_ ," Sylvia said candidly. "You've been with me for a little under six years. Are you _really_ surprised by that?"

"Would you just…Please help Olga with the candles." He pointed in the direction Olga had walked.

"I'd rather help you get your rocks off, but fine. If that's what you want."

She kissed him on the cheek before she walked away after their housemaid.

As she left, Oswald exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair, attempting to gain his self-composure before she came back.

For all his wiles about professionalism, and deep-rooted attempts to be clear-headed, Sylvia was an excellent test of self-restraint. He hoped his approaching hard-on would go away in her temporary absence.


	92. The Plot Unfolds

Chapter Ninety-Two: The Plot Unfolds

Author's Note: This chapter is intense. Trigger Warning: Paralysis and immobilization.

* * *

Once the candles had been lit, Olga headed back to her quarters, a flashlight in her hand. Per her usual routine, she would be going to bed, presumably listening to her audiobook. Having since become ensconced in the ESL program in which Oswald had her previously enrolled, the woman seemed captivated by English literature.

Oswald was seated in the living room, taking a moment to be grateful for the silence and rest this power outage provided.

He leaned his back into the corner of the couch between the arm and its frame, relaxed. Even though Jerome was alive, and Gotham was, no doubt, being ripped apart by those who were easily influenced by the clown's hedonistic practices, the mansion had its own island-like peace.

Sylvia returned from the kitchen and she handed him a glass of wine while she sat next to him on the couch, opening a can of Diet Coke.

The fireplace was in full flame and the lit candles were sprinkled throughout the living room and dining room. The kitchen was the only darkest room aside from those upstairs.

"Got any ghost stories to tell, Mr. Cobblepot?" Sylvia humored, smirking at him after she took a sip from the can.

"None that I care to tell."

She placed the can on the surface of the coffee table before she took to him in a delicate prowl; her knees pinned his lap on either side of him; her hands rubbed up and down his chest, her fingers fidgeting with the knot of his tie as well as the buttons along his vest. His dress coat had long since been predisposed of over the back of the couch.

"If you're not interested in telling ghost stories, we could—instead—give the house ghosts a story of their own." She said playfully.

"You are insatiable."

"Well, you already knew that. Again, surely, you're not surprised. Come onnnn."

"We still have to figure out, for certain, who's responsible for uprooting my father's grave—"

"—and the people who are responsible for fucking with your empire, and who put a bug in Alex's ear to say what he did," Sylvia finished impatiently. "I _know_. But we can't really do anything right now. It's not like the people responsible are going to _waltz_ right in and—"

" _Actually, that's exactly what's happening_. _"_

As soon as they heard the voice, Sylvia and Oswald sat upright. Just as they did, a total of seven darts were shot in Sylvia's neck, bicep, and thigh. In a matter of seconds, she lost her footing and fell to the floor, looking up from her back.

In that instant, Oswald was on his feet, enraged: "WHO THE—"

Barbara Kean, Tabitha Galavan, Butch Gilzean, and Edward Nygma strolled out to the living room with Butch holding a dart gun. As he did, he tilted the gun left and right as a point with a short explanation: "I'm glad we kept some of those syringes in the kitchen. A good back up if Olga decided to leave too."

Oswald started towards him angrily, but Barbara, Ed, and Tabitha held up their handguns, pointing them in his direction.

"Don't worry, Oswald," Ed drawled. "All those needles—it's looks worse than it really is. She's only moderately sedated. She can hear and see what we're saying and doing, but she's not able to talk. Isn't that right, Liv? Oh…" He cleared his throat, adding, "Blink twice if you just heard _anything_ I just said."

He looked down at where Sylvia lied on her back, looking up at him. Her eyes were open; they looked at Oswald then to Ed. At his direction, she blinked twice. Oswald bent down, touching her shoulder. Her eyes moved back to him.

"Why did…" Oswald uttered bewildered, looking up at Ed.

"It was the only way we were going to get within ten feet of you," Butch stated when Ed continued smiling without response. (Oswald glared at all of them.) "Stroke of genius on my end to use them, honestly. One less door I'd have to get punched through."

"'A stroke of genius'?" Ed condescended. "You're being awfully kind to yourself."

"Why are you here!" Oswald snapped, slowly standing. "And with them! You've been gone for weeks! I thought you were kidnapped—"

"—Yeah, that plan went all to hell, to be honest." Ed quipped. "My original intent was to bring you to the place Isabella died. But there were far too many variables—open space, possible witnesses…"

"We should just kill him here," Tabitha stated, glancing down at Sylvia guardedly.

"We're not doing it here."

"Why not! What was the whole point of this revenge plan if—"

"I said we're not doing it _here._ "

"It'll be easier if we did!" Tabitha snapped.

"Not for her, it won't be."

In saying so, Ed got within three feet of Tabitha.

"Are you sure you wanna get this close?" She warned.

"The plan is we get him and bring him to the Sirens. We are _not_ going to kill him in front of her." When he glanced at Sylvia, there was the slightest softening of his expression as he added, "I'm willing to choose compassion and give her that kindness."

"Yeah, and in the meantime, who knows how long the sedatives will hold her!"

"24 to 36 hours give or take," Butch offered freely, stopping Ed and the Tigress' argument short.

Everyone stared at him.

He recalled modestly, "That's how long it took for her to sleep it off the last time we did this."

"Let's get it over with anyway!" Tabitha said anxiously.

"And wait to be ambushed by Lark's riff-raff?" Barbara challenged.

"What riff-raff?"

"My people tell me they've got some twerp living here," Barbara argued, lowering her gun warily as she looked around. She glanced down at Sylvia: "Some barbaric little orphan. Where is she, anyway?"

"She's not here." Oswald declared.

"Why are you so concerned with an orphan?" Tabitha said incredulously.

"You'd be surprised what orphans are capable of. Ever run into Selina Kyle?" cautioned Butch. "Any orphan that's attached themselves to these two…boy, oh boy, I don't even wanna know…"

Oswald remained close to Sylvia's sedated body. Even if he couldn't protect her in the way he wanted to, he could at least be sure that Butch didn't inject any more sedatives in her system than she'd already received. He glanced down at her—was it a gift or a curse that Sylvia could communicate with just her eyes alone. What he saw in them scared him more than what could be his fate in the hands of his enemies.

"I don't understand." Oswald managed, albeit fearfully, looking at all four of them. "Why are you doing this? Ed…?"

Ignoring him, Ed glanced around just as Barbara had. As a point, he looked at Butch and gestured to Oswald as if giving a silent order.

All that led to was Butch frowning as he said unhappily, "I'm not taking orders from you, Nygma."

"Fine!" Barbara said irritably. "I'll do it!"

She stepped forward quickly and then whacked Oswald over the head with the side of her gun. Oswald fell onto the table, unconscious. The wine glass and can of Diet Coke spilled over and fell to the carpet.

"Well, now we're going to have to carry him out." Ed resigned.

"You _wanted_ us to knock him out." Butch debated.

"I meant 'take him'. You're the brawn in the group! I figured you would be used to that command."

"I'm not gonna take this from some skinny man dressed like a stalk of celery!" Butch said heatedly, as he took a step towards him. "You're getting on my last nerve!"

"Just get him!" Barbara ordered, annoyed. "We're taking him back to the club."

"What about her?" Tabitha asked, lowering her gaze.

Ed looked down at Sylvia; she might've been sedated and void of all expression, but he could see the plea and confusion in her eyes, seeing him there with the other three.

As a point, Ed sighed and stooped down; he took her shoulders and pulled her up, laying her down on the couch on her back. As he did, Butch, Tabitha, and Barbara exchanged interested expressions but said nothing.

"Are you still with us, Sylvia?" Ed said firmly. "Blink twice if you can still understand what I'm telling you."

Sylvia's chest rose and fell a lot faster for someone who had three times the dose of a sedative that a woman her size could take. And she wasn't passing out any time soon; Ed had just barely guessed the right dosage to knock her down and keep her down. Mr. Bell and Victor Zsasz may have had something to do with her strength and agility, but there was a natural raw power inside of her. And that intimidated him.

Hearing him, Sylvia blinked twice.

Ed looked up and spoke directly to Barbara: "You take Penguin back to your club. Give him the low-down on everything that's happened. I'd like to speak to Sylvia alone, if I may."

Barbara shrugged, giving Tabitha and Butch the nod to leave.

Butch grumpily squatted down, throwing Oswald over his shoulder; after, he followed Tabitha outside to the car they had waiting. Barbara stepped towards the couch; as she did, Sylvia's eyes darted towards her.

"It's okay…" She uttered softly. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'll see you soon, Girlfriend." She looked at Ed with a stern gaze, adding, "I'll see you back at the club."

She left, closing the door on her way out.

Sylvia had never felt so vulnerable in the worst way possible. Being held down against her will by way of her repressed nervous system was far scarier than if she'd been tied down with ropes or chains. She struggled but no movements came about despite her efforts. Her fingers couldn't even wiggle; her entire body felt numb.

Her eyes slowly looked at Ed, who sat on the coffee table in front of the couch.

He glanced at the glass of wine that had spilled and clunked to the carpet, the can of diet coke that had clattered to the floor; and his eyes caught the site where Alex had presumably fallen and died on the spot.

"As I talk," Ed said coolly, "I want you to understand that none of this was meant to harm you specifically. But I do want a few answers if you'll humor me."

Sylvia's face was stoic, but he could swear that if looks could kill, he'd be dead ten times over.

"You led Isabella to Stone Creek Bridge, didn't you?" He presumed, although his voice hitched with sadness and knowing. "Blink twice if you did."

Sylvia blinked twice.

"Alex was with you, was he not?"

She blinked twice.

"And you two pushed her off the bridge."

Sylvia's chest rose and fell quicker, and a tear fell down her cheek. After a moment of hesitation, she intentionally blinked twice.

Ed sighed, breaking his cool façade as he held the bridge of his nose. As a theory, even from Barbara, it hadn't been real. It had only been that—a theory. But hearing it (or rather, seeing it) come from Sylvia: it made it so much more painful to accept.

"Oswald gave the order for you to kill Isabella. And you followed it."

She blinked twice. More tears fell.

"Even _after_ killing her, you consoled me. You pretended to be my friend." Ed said furiously. "You and I slept together even though you were the _reason_ she was dead that entire time!"

He stood, declaring this. When he did, Sylvia closed her eyes tightly as if he might have tried killing her right then and there.

For once in his life, he saw that she was afraid. Ed hadn't really seen Sylvia terrified of anyone. So, if she weren't feeling fear, what else could her fallen tears, dampened cheeks, and quick, shaky respirations signify?

Ed sat down slowly. Her eyes opened and she searched his.

"You can't say a single word," He said quietly. "Even while you can't, it's like you're still trying to give me an excuse for your betrayal. You're not afraid of me…Are you, Liv?"

She blinked once.

"You're more afraid of what's going to happen to Oswald. Aren't you?"

She blinked twice.

"How long did you mourn Alex before you decided to _climb_ back into bed with him?" Ed questioned unhappily. He reached forward, holding her jaw in his hand. "Did you even cry when Oswald _shot_ him in front of you?"

He straightened his back, dropping his hand from her.

"I thought that would be enough for you to leave him." He uttered lowly. "Oswald killing someone you once cared about apparently had no effect on you. It'd be easier for me to think that. It's been easier to do all this when I try to believe that you would have wanted to kill Isabella in the most grotesque, undeserving way she died. But finding out that you came back, _even after_ Oswald shot Alex, I realize that there is nothing— _nothing_ —that he can do to make you stop loving him. I'm right, aren't I?"

Sylvia blinked twice, the tears that strewn down her face now either fell to the carpet or rolled down her neck.

"I loved Isabella. And Oswald killed her. What's more, he told you to do it and you obeyed. As angry as I am with you for doing that, I know that your obedience is just a side effect of his toxic influence he has over you." He said sadly, touching Sylvia's hair.

A few strands fell over her face; he tucked it gently behind her ear.

"I hope you know that what happens next is nothing to do with you. Oswald gave the order to kill her; it is he who deserves to die. In time, I hope you'll understand why. Then again: Once he's gone, I'm sure you'll understand better than anyone."

He stood, walking away at first. Before he did, however, he stooped one last time.

"To answer your proffered question earlier as to who told Alex to call you 'Pigeon' at the right time?"

She stared at him.

He brought his lips to her ear and whispered, "It was me. I told him to do it."

He kissed her forehead.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Liv." He walked towards the front of the mansion, heading out to the car where Barbara, Tabitha, Butch, and an unconscious Oswald were waiting. "I'll be sure to lock the door on my way out. You should be safe at least until morning."


	93. Lark, Dethroned

Chapter Ninety-Three: Lark, Dethroned

* * *

" _Syl…via…"_

Who was that? What…

" _Sylv…ia…_?"

Her mind was so foggy. Her mind…

"What the…Oh, hell…Sylvia? What… _Liv_ …!"

After what might have been a minute since the voice called out to her, a pair of hands tapped her hard on the shoulders. Then that feeling faded until some time passed before the same hands picked her up and she fell steadily to a cushioned surface.

 _Tapped_ her…They tapped _her_?

Wait, she felt that!

Sylvia sleepily opened her eyes, instinctively rolling to her side. When she did, everything from her stomach readily jumped to the back of her throat. Lunging forward, Sylvia threw up in a metal bucket that had been conveniently placed beside her.

"Easy…"

That voice!

Sylvia turned her head. Seeing Victor Zsasz, she scurried away, fumbling, and stumbling over her hands and feet before her head smacked straight into the edge of the coffee table as she fell off the couch.

"Whoa!" He caught her shoulders. "Easy, hey, hey, hey!"

"Nnnnooo." Sylvia groaned, wrestling against him. After a moment, the struggle was forsaken as she grabbed the bucket before gagging into it once more.

His hand rubbed her back as he settled down to the floor alongside her.

"Sit right here." Victor said firmly. "I'll get you a glass of water."

"No! Wait!" She grabbed onto his sleeve and thrust her hand downward, pulling him back down to his knees.

He wasn't surprised by her strength as much as he was startled by the sudden switch of how quickly she tried seeking out his help when not only a second ago, she was fighting him.

She was trying to gather her surroundings; at the same time, self-preservation had kicked itself into fifth gear as she gained consciousness, or at least that's what Victor suspected.

"Oswald…" Her face broke as she attempted not to cry, but her voice betrayed her. "H-he…He, and with Barbara…Tabi—and Butch—"

She didn't make it through a full sentence before she grabbed the bucket and started gagging again, releasing him in the process.

Victor reassured her that he would return and that he wasn't going far. She could only nod before she wretched harder, although nothing came out.

He quickly left to the kitchen, pouring her a glass of water. When he returned, Sylvia had managed to climb halfway back on the couch. One leg was on the cushion fully; the other was hovering diagonally as if she was still making the effort to ascend.

"Ah, Liv."

He put the glass down on the coffee table, taking her by the stomach and he configured her body, so she sat upright although she leaned downward into the corner between the back and arm of the couch.

Her eyes focused in and out, sometimes peering at or through him. Once he was certain she wasn't going to either fall forward or pass out on him, Victor leaned forward, taking the glass of water, and handed it to her.

"Small sips." He advised.

Sylvia nodded, making a noise of understanding. In the meantime, Victor took a good look at her.

Her eyes were red, but not in the way they might've been if she had been sleep-deprived; her disorientation, the nausea and vomiting, yet her ability to be mobile—These were the post side effects to whatever had been in those needles; he'd pried off the syringe darts that she had stuck to her neck, bicep, and outermost thigh while she had been asleep.

"Why…" Sylvia said hoarsely, looking at him groggily. "Why are…"

"Why am I here?" Victor finished. She nodded. "After Jerome Valeska came back from the dead, I figured you and Penguin would be holed up here. When you didn't answer any of my phone calls this morning, I figured I'd come by, see if you were still angry about what happened between Jim and me. Door was locked, but I got in—you know, through the window, which _wasn't_ locked. When I come in" (He gestured to the living room) "You're on the floor, sleeping, covered in needles—completely knocked out."

Sylvia rubbed her eyes; she nearly dropped the glass before Victor quickly grabbed it and delicately placed it on the table.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Victor said calmly.

She shook her head, still on the brink of uncontrollable sobbing: "It happened so fast…"

"Take your time." He reclined against the couch, an arm on the back behind her.

She was quiet for a moment as if her mind were slowly cutting down the weeds to gather the full picture. When she finally seemed to gather what happened the day before, her face evolved into one of realization.

She quickly moved towards the coffee table, reaching down for the metal bucket, and emptying her stomach of the water she'd just barely kept down.

However, her answer did come back in the form of an echo against the can: "Barbara, Tabitha, Butch, and Edward Nygma…" She inhaled sharply before she gagged again.

After a point, she stopped and placed the bucket back down on the floor, rubbing her chin with the back of her hand.

"I think…" She said hoarsely. "I think Ed killed Oswald."

Victor stared at her for a second or two before he touched her knee comfortingly, saying, "Do you know—"

"—I know how crazy it sounds!" Sylvia snapped, pushing his hand away. "But that's what he said to me! He said he was going to kill him! He said—and I couldn't do anything because I couldn't move and I tried going after them, but I just couldn't get my feet to work, and—." Her words failed her once she started crying again.

Victor sighed, pulling her to him. Her face pressed against his vest and her hands fell on his stomach.

"I think Ed killed him and I couldn't—I couldn't—"

"It's okay." He whispered, rubbing her back. "Just let it out."

A few buckets of tears later, Sylvia sat on the couch in black capris, a white T-shirt, and her hair was pulled up into a ponytail. Victor strode from the kitchen to the living room, handing her a cup of coffee. When she rejected the offer, he simply placed it on the coffee table in any case she wanted it later.

A few minutes passed in which they were silent. He occasionally peered up at her, seeing if she was ready to talk. However, she mostly just stared at the floor as if she were either remembering these past events or looking incredibly lost.

He'd never seen her in shock before. Sure, there were times he'd seen her grieve; he'd seen both Penguin and Sylvia's emotions rubbed raw the day Gertrud died. While Penguin had nearly fallen apart, Sylvia had risen like a phoenix, hardening her emotions at least until Penguin had recovered. But Victor had never really seen her in shock—not like this.

She looked at him. While most of the nausea and vomiting side effects from the sedation had faded in the last hour, she was still suffering from the exhaustion and fatigue that remained.

Victor was satisfied to see that despite her fatigue, there was a darkness in the way her gaze met his.

"However, you want to do this," He said finally. "I'm on board. We can look for Penguin anytime you want."

"There's no point," Sylvia croaked. "Ed said he was going to kill Oswald."

"Maybe he was bluffing."

"Ed doesn't bluff."

"Either way—"

"Victor…please." She rubbed her face. A dry sob escaped her before she sniffed and said firmly, "I want to find Charleen and make sure she's okay first."

Victor quirked a hairless eyebrow: "Who's Charleen?"

"She's in some form or fashion kind of like my ward." Sylvia said vaguely, getting to her feet.

Wordlessly, she searched the living room for her flats. Finding them under the couch, she slipped them on. Victor watched her interestedly; even as she was undergoing crippling emotional distress, he reckoned there was still a wick ready to be set aflame at any moment.

"She said she was going to the Flea to take care of business."

"Most of the Flea was burned down."

Sylvia looked at him suddenly: " _What_?"

Victor stood and said carefully, "Jerome's followers took a torch to it last night—right along with the rest of the city."

She frowned, saying, "I'm _still_ going."

As she said so, the front door opened. Victor pulled out the two Glocks nested in the sheathes of his holster vest, stepping in front of Sylvia just as soon as Barbara Kean had walked in with Tabitha Galavan. With them were six people of whom were unfamiliar and unnamed: back-up.

"The door was unlocked," Barbara said smoothly, smiling even while Victor stood at the ready. "We figured we'd stop by."

Sylvia looked up from her place on the couch.

She said coldly, "What do you want?"

"I want to talk." Barbara answered kindly. She pointedly looked at Victor: "That's all I want to do. What do you say, Lark?"

"That depends." Sylvia said shakily, standing. "Where's Oswald?"

"I'm pretty sure you know the answer to that," Tabitha said with a sly smile.

"Tabby, shh!" Barbara hissed, glaring at her.

"What?" Tabitha said indignantly. "It's not like she doesn't already know—"

" _VICTOR_!"

Once he heard Sylvia shout his name, Victor pulled the hammer back on both of his weapons.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Barbara pleaded, stepping forward between the professional hitman and Tabitha.

Victor glanced over his shoulder readily at Sylvia, who was quiet for a moment before she seemed to push herself forward. He felt her tap his shoulder and he lowered one arm but kept his eyes trained on all of the intruders currently standing in the room: All eight of them.

"I know you're angry, Sylvia…" Barbara said evenly, holding out an arm.

"You can't even begin to understand what the fuck I'm feeling, Barbara!" Sylvia responded hotly, although her voice was surprisingly quieter even though it came out unsteady.

"She can try," Tabitha muttered.

"GET OUT!" Sylvia bellowed.

"Hold on!" Barbara said quickly, shifting her position as she gritted her teeth when Victor raised the other gun. "We can talk… _just us_. Please."

Victor once more glanced back at Sylvia, waiting for the order. He would readily do what she wanted. That spark he'd been waiting to ignite evidently had a smaller wick than he'd anticipated. Her entire body shook with rage; it was as if that emotion would eventually eek itself out and become a physical manifestation at any point.

"Fine." Sylvia's voice quivered. "You stay. The others leave."

"Thank you," Barbara returned sincerely.

Tabitha and the other six that accompanied made a point to leave not before Tabitha sent Barbara a concerned glance. Barbara nodded her head, encouraging her to vacate.

When the door was closed, Sylvia sat down in the armchair slowly.

"Aren't you going to dismiss him?" Barbara hinted glancing at Victor.

"No." Sylvia returned icily. "You stood by and let Butch _sedate_ me. And then you left me alone, immobilized, for the last 36 hours while these rabid motherfuckers tore this city apart. No. Victor stays. But…" She tilted her head to the side a little and Victor nodded. "I'll do you the kindness to **not** have a gun being pointed at your face."

Victor stepped to the side.

Barbara sat on the couch, glancing at the blood stain from where Alex had died, and the few others from last night where the beverages had been spilled upon their surprise entry. She gave Victor a second glance, seeing as he hadn't taken a seat and doubtfully would be anytime soon.

Sylvia glowered.

"Talk." She ordered.

Barbara said softly, "As a gentle reminder: Edward Nygma was behind killing Oswald. I didn't do anything—"

"—Besides help him do it. Why don't you skip that part and get to the reason as to why you're here and why I shouldn't rip your heart out of your body." Sylvia interrupted.

"I left your Crime Family alone." Barbara skipped to the basics as requested, if not willingly. Even while she was certain that Sylvia wouldn't kill her, there was no telling how long that mercy would tie her over. "Paddock's old crew, Benson, your twins, Gabe—even—they're all safe; none of them were harmed, because _I_ made that happen."

"Really."

" _Yes_. Tabitha wanted to kill all of them, including you, but I didn't let her because—"

"—So, I should be _grateful_ to you. Is that it?"

"I'm saying it could be a lot worse."

"Did Ed really kill Oswald?" Sylvia questioned.

"Well, yes—"

"—Then I fail to see how it could _possibly_ get worse!"

"You still have a Crime Family to rule. You still have connections in the Mainland. Your people you're responsible for are still alive." Barbara listed, ignoring Sylvia's furious and snide comments (however justified they were). "And as long as you do what I say, it'll stay that way."

Victor frowned.

Sylvia's reaction was visceral as she lunged forward; a lick of burning, white-hot anger seemed to dig into her insides, causing her to cross over the coffee table and grab Barbara by the throat, shoving her back harder into the couch.

"You are in _no_ position to threaten me **or** my staff." Sylvia said hatefully. "You're going to hold the lives of everyone that you and that fucking bitch didn't kill over my head? You think you can just walk into my home and tell me what it's gonna be like from here on out? What are you _really_ here for, Barbara? And why, after all of this, did you not kill me too!"

"Because you've been my friend!" Barbara said quickly, although her hands moved to the one that was borne around her neck. "Okay? And I like you. And…at the risk of you strangling me…I…I thought you'd be at least a little happy that I made all of them keep you alive."

"You think you were _merciful_ for keeping me alive?" Sylvia's voice heightened into hysterical cynicism, releasing Barbara and allowing the woman to lax as she straightened, glowering. "Ed killed Oswald! It would have been _merciful_ if you had killed me as well! That's not mercy—that's an investment." She sat back down in the armchair.

Victor stayed on her left, although by this point, he'd lowered his weapons completely. Sylvia wouldn't be looking to him for Barbara's punishment if it came down to it. No way. She'd want to carry it out herself. And as much as missing that kind of hands-on fun would suck, Victor was in no way shape or form ready to argue the point.

Having regained her somewhat self-composure, at least long enough to not gut her where she sat, Sylvia looked at Barbara with a glare that might kill the toughest man alive and said firmly, "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Barbara said coolly, smiling a little. "You're the Lark. Even with Penguin gone, I know that the moment you seek to rebuild the empire, you'll be promoting your people to capos and before you know it, we'll have targets on our backs. I'm here to make certain that you're not going to do that. Instead…"

Sylvia chuckled darkly. The sound made Barbara's confidence stutter.

"You want the empire?" Sylvia said dryly. "Is that all? You want to rule?"

"Exactly."

"You can have it. Take it. It's yours."

Victor uttered under his breath, "Liv…you're not serious…?"

"You're not going to fight for it?" Barbara asked; she sounded more disappointed than anything.

"What am I fighting for? What else am I holding onto?" Sylvia questioned no one in particular.

She took the invisible crown off her head and handed it to Barbara sarcastically, who could only stare at her in surprise.

"Here. Have it. Wear it. Choke on it for all I care. I don't give a damn anymore. Enjoy."

"You're giving it up just like that?" Barbara asked, taken aback.

"Why not…Fuck it…"

Barbara bit the inside of her cheek. She paused for a second, seeing Sylvia tread the line between trying to keep her cool and hysterical rage.

"Sylvia," Barbara uttered gently. "As your friend…I'm offering you to be my lieutenant like what you were before you stepped down to be a Don or Donna or whatever. And you can still keep your club."

"…Huh…"

"All of that is still yours." Barbara comforted. "I'm not going to take anything away from you—"

"YOU'VE ALREADY TAKEN EVERYTHING AWAY FROM ME!" Sylvia bellowed as she was on her feet instantly. " _How can you not understand that, you_ **fucking** _bitch_!"

Barbara flinched back, tightly closing her eyes in any case Sylvia delivered the blow. When no harm came to her, she slowly opened them to see Sylvia standing in front of her. Her eyes were a stormy cerulean-tinged gray, and while there was rage, her grief had quickly replaced it instead.

"Whatever deal you're trying to strike with me, you can keep it." She uttered dangerously. "It's because of our friendship in the past—that history…I won't kill you. But fuck your charity; fuck your deals. And fuck you."

"Sylvia, listen to me. If you don't take it, your Family—Paddock's people—are going to be taken advantage of. People are going to try and get your club; they're going to stake out whatever's left of your territory if you don't make this deal with me. Do you understand _that_?" Barbara persuaded.

"Let them." Sylvia said carelessly, sitting back in the armchair. "I don't care. I really don't."

Victor gave Barbara the nod towards the door. The hint to leave while she still could.

"Before you go," Sylvia said quietly, staring down at the floor, "Would you mind telling me where Ed killed him? I'd like to say good-bye."

"Nygma said he took him to the pier."

"Thanks. Now get out."

"Sylvia, can we please—"

"I SAID GET OUT!"

Barbara quickly stood and ran out of the mansion. Victor looked after her before he turned to Sylvia once more, waiting for her to change her mind but no sound except for Sylvia's tearful continuation came.

He'd expected a torrent of emotion. Perhaps in killing Penguin, they'd really broken the Queen. Sylvia tried sit back on the couch; her uncontrollable sobbing brought her down further past the couch and she fell to the floor.

"Oh…" Victor helped her up. "Come on, Liv. Upsy-Daisy…"

He managed to put her back on the couch, but she was unresponsive to him after.

* * *

Tabitha waited outside with the rest of their minions, pacing back and forth. She considered storming inside when she heard Sylvia's furious shrieks until the door opened; exiting was Barbara, who looked shaken, but otherwise healthy and—more importantly—alive.

"So?" Tabitha said expectedly.

"She gave it up." Barbara quipped.

They headed back to the cars. Tabitha sat in the passenger seat, peering inquisitively at Barbara, who took the wheel. Driving back to the _Sirens_ , it was a little too silent for her taste.

"What's wrong?" Tabitha asked.

Barbara glanced at her, feigning nonchalance: "What? Nothing's wrong."

"You seem annoyed."

"Of course, I'm annoyed."

"Why?" Tabitha questioned. "That went better than we expected. I thought we'd have to threaten her—"

"—I know. Me too."

Tabitha shook her head, saying, "She made it easier on us, then. Even better. So, why are you so irritated?"

Barbara nibbled on the inside of her bottom lip in pressing thought. Once they were at a stop light, she said darkly, "Lark just fully submitted and literally handed us her and Penguin's authority on a silver platter without even _trying_ to defend her territory. She didn't even care that I left her crew alive."

Tabitha shrugged: "Who knew taking Penguin out would break her resolve. Want my opinion? We should've done that a long time ago. That's a good thing."

Barbara sighed irately. Her small huff struck a reproachful chord in Tabitha; she glanced at the driver uncertainly.

"I was just expecting more fight." Barbara explained unhappily.

"She seemed full of fight when I left."

"Yeah, but…"

Tabitha sighed patiently, "You feel bad. Is that it?"

"Of course, I do! She's my friend."

"Not to be a bummer, but I think your friendship is over."

"I tried pointing out that Nygma killed Penguin but that didn't go over too well either," said Barbara sadly. "Like, everything from not killing Paddock's old crew to keeping her assets alive was all a clever plan to convince her to be our mediator between us and the common denominator."

Tabitha leaned back in her seat, picking at her fingernails.

Lazily, she said, "She wouldn't have followed you, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's said it once before. Lark doesn't follow anyone's orders other than Penguin's. If you ever wanted something from her, you had to go through Penguin first. At least, that's what she told my brother right before we showed him how we had his mother in our playpen. Seemed to make her more cooperative."

"The only person she cared about is dead now. I don't think we have that leverage."

"She has that brat of hers. What's her name…" Tabitha snapped her fingers, trying to recall.

"She's already surrendered the Underworld." Barbara said sympathetically. "The Queen's been dethroned. No need to hurt her anymore than we have already."

"You think she'll come back for it all?"

"I'll be surprised if she comes back from _this_."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea to have a back-up plan in any case she does."

"I hear you, Tabby. But you didn't see her in there. I've _never_ seen her so…broken. I've never seen her like that _ever_."

"Maybe it was an act."

"No. I don't think so. I don't think she'll be causing much trouble. The only thing I am concerned about is whether those people who followed her will try to avenge their fallen heroine."

"We could always prevent the uprising: Kill them all."

"We'll approach that as it comes," Barbara decided softly. "I still have hope of her agreeing to our deal."

"Your deal. Given the option, I'd rather her just step down—altogether."

"She's still someone in this town. She deserves to stay that way. But hey: maybe if enough things happen around her, something is bound to light a fire under her. If she doesn't do anything, her club will lose revenue without her involvement—eventually get bought out by a new manager; her crew will eventually disperse to join gangs whose leaders aren't grieving or be taken apart by gangs who had a vendetta against the Paddock Crime Family in general; eventually, she'll come around. The deal will still be on the table when she does."

"I wouldn't let her mood ruin ours though."

"I'm not."

"Are you sure?" Tabitha said encouragingly.

"The Queen is dead," Barbara said with a small smile, which evolved into a sly one as she spoke. "It's our time to rule. And it's our turn to show Gotham how it's done."

Tabitha said coolly, "That's more like it. Just remember you owe me Nygma's life now, seeing as we no longer need him anymore."

Barbara nodded: "In time, sweetie."

Tabitha heard her half-promise but seeing as they had left the Van Dahl mansion with everyone they'd arrived with as well as the key to the kingdom, she spared Barbara in her request for a more committed response.

Lark and Penguin were dethroned. Long Live Tabitha Galavan and Barbara Kean.

* * *

Author's Note: Not to worry. Sequel is under way It'll be called 'If I Never Knew You'. First chapter to be posted before or by the end of the week! Love you guys who've been with me from the beginning, and welcome to those who've just come on board. I'll see you in the next sequel! xoxox


End file.
